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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



Alfred, Lord Tenxyson 



{POET LAUREATE). 



FROM THE AUTHOR'S TEXT. 



WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY ENGLISH AND 
AMERICAN ARTISTS. 



3j«<C 



/((>s>r-^' 



TROY, N. Y. 
H. B. NIMS & CO. 

1886. 



f^ 






i 



<t 



t'^ 



Copyright, 

By Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 

1885. 



J. S. CusHiNR & Co., Printers, Boston. 

PRESSWORK BY BERWICK i. SMITH, 



OOISTTEI^TS. 



PAGE 

Achilles over the Trench ...... 597 

Additional, Occasional and Discarded 

Poems 669 

Additional Verses to " God save the 

Queen " 688 

Adeline 21 

Alexander. (Early Sonnets.) .... 26 

All Things will die 3 

Amphion 107 

Anacreontics 684 

Arrival, The. (The Day Dream.) . . .10-1 
Ask me no more. (Princess.) .... 370 
As through the land. (Princess.) . . . 335 

Audley Court 80 

Aylmer's Field 127 

Babble in Bower. (Becket.) ... 648 

Ballad of Oriana, The 19 

Ballads and Other Poems 566 

Battle of Brunanburh 596 

Becket 622 

Beggar Maid, The 118 

Blackbird, The 62 

Boadicea 168 

Break, break, break 122 

Bridesmaid, The. (Early Sonnets.) . . 28 

Britons, guard your own 686 

Brook, The 123 

Buonaparte 26 

Burial of Love, The 674 

Captain, The 114 

Caress'd or Chidden. (Early Sonnets.) . 27 

Character, A 15 

Charge of the Heavy Brigade .... 689 

Charge of the Light Brigade 152 

Choric Song. (The Lotos Eaters.) . . 54 
Chorus in an Unpublished Drama . . . 677 

Circumstance 20 

City Child, The 165 

Claribel 3 

Columbus 587 

Come down, O maid. (Princess.) . . . 372 

Coming of Arthur, The 175 

Come into the garden. (Maud.) . . . 390 

Come not when I am dead 118 

Cup, The 599 

Daisy, The 160 

Day Dream, The 103 

Death of the Old Year, The 62 

Dedication, A 168 

Dedicatory Poem to the Princess Alice . 582 

Defence of Lucknow, The 582 

De Profundis 593 

Deserted House, The 17 

Despair 691 

Dirge, A 18 

Dora 77 



PAGE 

Dream of Fair Women, A 56 

Dualisms 680 

Dying Swan, The 17 

Eagle, The 118 

Early Sonnets 26 

Early Spring 693- 

Edward Gray 110 

Edwin Morris 83 

Eleanore 24 

England and America in 1782 .... 66 

English Idyls 67 

English War Song 679 

Enoch Arden 397 

Epic, The 67 

Epilogue. (Day Dream.) 107 

Experiments 168 

1865-1866 688 

Falcon, The 613 

Farewell, A 117 

Fatima 38 

First Quarrel, The 566 

Flower, The 163 

Fragment, A 684 

Frater Ave Atque Vale 694 

Freedom 694 

Gardener's Daughter, The 73 

Gareth and Lynette 183 

Geraint and Enid 205 

Godiva 101 

Golden Year, The 93 

Go not, happy day. (Maud.) .... 385 

Goose, The 66 

Grasshopper, The 676 

Grandmother, The 154 

Guinevere 306 

Hands all Round 687 

Hapless doom of woman. (Queen Mary.) 504 

Harold 511 

Hendesyllabics 170 

Hero to Leander 675 

Hesperides, The .... ^ ... . 682 
Hexameters and Pentameters .... 169 

Higher Pantheism, The 167 

Holy Grail, The 272 

Home they brought her warrior. (Prin- 
cess.) 363 

How and the Why, The 673 

I come from haunts. (The Brook.) . . 124 

Idyls of the King 174 

If I were loved. (Early Sonnets.) . . 27 

In Meraoriam 411 ' 

In the Children's Hospital 581 

In the Garden at Swainston 162 

In the Valley of Cauteretz 162 

Isabel 6 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Islet, The 163 

It is the Miller's Daughter 37 

Juvenilia 3 

Kate 683 

Kraken, The 6 

Lady Clare 112 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere 48 

Lady of iShaloll, The 28 

Lancelot and Elaine 250 

Last Tournament, The 295 

Late, late, so late. (Guinevere.) . . . 309 

L'Envol. (Day Dream.) 106 

Leonine Elegiacs 4 

Letters, The 119 

Lilian 6 

Lines. " Here often when a chiJd." . . 689 

Literary Squabbles 165 / 

Locksley Hall 97 V 

Lord of Burleigh, The 114 

Lotos Eaters, The 52 

Lost Hope 677 

Love 679 

Love and Death 19 

Love and Duty 92 

Love and Sorrow 677 

Love, Pride and Forgetfulness .... 676 
Love that hath us. (The Miller's Daugh- 
ter.) 37 

Lover's Tale, The 545 

Love thou tliy land 65 

Lucretius 144 

Madeline 9 

Margaret , 22 

Mariana 7 

Mariana in the South 8 

Maud 370 

May Queen, The -^9 

Merlin and Vivien 234 

Mermaid, The 21 

Merman, The 20 

Midnight, June 30, 1879 093 

Miller's Daughter, The 35 

Milton. (Alcaics.) 170 

Mine be the strength. (Early Souoels.) 26 

Minnie and Winnie 165 

Montenegro 595 

Morte d'Arthur 68 

Moral. (Day Dream.) 106 

Move eastward, happy earth 118 

My life is full of weary days 25 

Mystic, The 675 

National Song "... 680 

NewTimon, The 685 

No more 6S4 

Northern Cobbler, The 570 

Note to Rosalind 083 

Northern Farmer. (Old Style.) . . . 157 
Northern Farmer. (New Style.) . . . 159 

Nothing win die 3 

Now sleeps the crimson jjctal. (Prin- 
cess.) 372 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of "Well- 
ington 148 

Ode sung at Opening of International 
Exhibition 152 



Page 

Ode to Memory. Addressed to . . 12 

O darling room 984 

Ginone 38 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights ... 64 

On a Mourner 64 

O swallow, swallow, flying. (Princess.) 349 
Our enemies have fallen. (Princess.) . 365 

Oi peoi'Tes 680 

Palace of Art, The 42 

Passing of Arthur, The 318 

Pelleas and Ettarre 286 

Princess, The 328 

Poet, The 15 

Poet's Mind, The 16 

Poet's Song, The 123 

Poland. (Early Sonnets.) 27 

I'refatory Sonnet to the "Nineteenth 

Century " 594 

Prologue. (Day Dream.) 103 

Queen Mary -149 

Recollections of the Arabian Nights . . 10 

Requiescat 163 

Revenge, The 572 

Revival, The. (Day Dream.) .... 105 

Ringlet, The 669 

Rizpah 568 

Rosalind 23 

Round Table, The 183 

Sailor Boy, The 163 

Sea Dreams 140 

Sea Fairies, The 16 

Sir Galahad 108 

Sir John Franklin 598 

Sir John Oldcastle 584 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere . . 116 

Skipping Rope, The 685 

Sisters, The 42 

Sisters, The 574 

Sleeping Beauty, The. (Day Dream.) . 104 
Sleeping Palace, The. (Day Dream.) . 103 
Song : 

A spirit haunts 14 

Every day hath its night 675 

Home they brought him 670 

I' the glooming light 674 

Lady let the rolling drums 609 

The lintwhite and the throstlecock . . 674 

The Owl 10 

To the same 10 

The winds as at their hour 6 

AVho can say 083 

Sonnet : 

But were I loved 681 

Could I outwear 673 

Check every outflash 685 

Me my own fate 68', 

O Beauty, passing beauty 081 

On Cambridge Vuiversity OS^t 

On hearing of the Polish Insurrection . 684 

Shall the hag Evil die 678 

The pallid thunder-stricken .... 678 

There are three things ...... 03 5 

Though night hath climbed .... 678 

To Wni. Charles Macready . . . . 6"6 

Spiteful Letter, The 16'> 

St. Agnes' Eve 108 

St. Simeon Stylites 85 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Stanzas. " What time I wasted." . . . 686 
Supposed Confessions of a Sensitive 

Mind 4 

Sweet and low. (Princess.) 341 

Specimen of Translation Homer's Iliad . 170 

Talking Oak, The 88 

Tears, idle tears. (Princess.) .... 347 

Tears of Heaven, The 677 

The form, the form alone. (Early Son- 
nets.) 27 

The splendor falls. (Princess.) .... 341 

Third of February, The 151 

Thy voice is heard. (Princess.) . . .355 

Timbuctoo 670 

Tithonus 96 

To , after reading a Life and Letters 122 

To , " All good things " 681 

To , *' As when with downcast eyes " 26 

To ," Clear-headed friend ". ... 9 

To ," Sainted Juliet " 6"4 

To , with the following Poem ... 42 

To a Lady sleeping 678 

To Christopher North 684 

To Dante 598 

To E. L., on his Travels in Greece . . 122 

To J. M. K. . • 26 

To J. S 63 

To Princess Frederica 597 

To the Queen 1 

POEMS BY 

Ah ! yes, the lip 729 

All joyous in the realms 720 

Anacreontic 734 

And ask me why . 715 

Antony to Cleopatra 702 

ApoUonius Rhoduis's Complaint . . . 724 

A sister, sweet endearmg name .... 72" 

Babylon 732 

Bard's Farewell, The 723 

Battle-Field, The 720 

Borne on light wings 714 

Boyhood 706 

Cease, railer, cease! 734 

Contrast, A 731 

Deity, The 718 

Dell of E , The 700 

Did not thy roseate lips 707 

Druid's Prophecies, The 709 

Duke of Alva's Observation, The . . . 728 
Dying Christian, The 731 

Egypt 709 

Epigram 724 

Epigram 731 

Epigram on a Musician 724 

Eulogium on Homer 727 

Exhortation to the Greeks 740 

Exile's Harp, The 698 

Expedition of Nadir Shah 711 

Fall of Jerusalem, The 724 

Friendship 715 

Glance, A 7.32 

God's Denunciation against Pharaoh . . 720 
Gondola, The 703 



PAGE 

To the Queen 3'26 

To the liev. F. D. Maurice 161 

To the Kcv. \X. II. Brookfield .... 595 

To Victor Hugo 595 

To Virgil 690 

Two Voices, The 30 

Ulysses 94 

Victim, The 165 

Village Wife, The 578 

Vision of Sin, The 119 

Voice and the Peak, The 167 

Voyage, The 115 

Voyage of Maeldune, The 591 

Wages 166 

Walking to the Mail 81 

Wan sculptor, weepest thou. (Early 

Sonnets.) 27 

War, The 688 

Welcome to Alexandra 153 

Welcome to Marie Alexandrovna . . . 153 

What does little birdie say? 144 

Will 162 

Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue . 110 
Window, The 171 



You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease 



TWO BROTHERS. 



Have ye not seen 

How gaily sinks 

Huntsman's Song 

High Priest, The, to Alexander 



Ignorance of Modern Egypt 

Imagination 

In early youth, I lost . . 
In summer when all nature 
In winter's dull .... 
I wander in darkness . . 



King Charles's Vision . . . . 

Lamentation of the Peruvians . 

Love 

Lines. " The eye must catch." . 
Lines. " Whence is it," . . . 



Maid of Savoy, The 

Maria to her Lute 

Memory 

Midnight 

Mithridates ])rescnting Berenice 
My Brother 



Oak of the North, Tho . . . 
Oh ' never may frowns . . . 
Oh! were tills heart . . . . 
Oh ! ye wild winds .... 
Old Chieftain, The .... 

Old Sword, The 

On a Dead Enemy 

On being asked for a Simile . 
On Death of Lord Byron . . 
On Death of niv Grandmother 



64 



Grave of a Suicide, The 721 

Greece 712 



698 
31 



13 
37 
696 
13 
35 
02 



12 
04 
i97 
13 
723 
01 

38 
28 
.33 
31 
24 
03 
28 
'24 
21 
15 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

On Golden Evenings TOO 

On Sublimity V16 

On the Moonlight 730 

Passione, The 729 

Persia 708 

Phrenolog3- 735 

Reign of Love, The 718 

Religion tho' we seem 699 

Remorse 699 

Scotch Song 714 

Slighted Lover, The 734 

Song. " It is the solemn even." . . . 714 

Song. " To sit beside." 737 

Stanzas. " Yon star of eve." .... 696 

Stars of yon blue placid sky 714 

Still, mule and motionless 727 

Sunday Mobs 733 

Swiss Song 711 

Kwitzerlaud 732 



PAGE 

The dew with which 730 

The sun goes down 727 

Those worldly goods 731 

Thou camest to thy bower 729 

Thunder-Storm, The 721 

Time : an ode 719 

'Tis sweet to lead 695 

'Tis the voice of the dead 718 

To , " And shall we say " .... 729 

To , " The dew that sits " .... 737 

To Fancy . 706 

To one whose hope 703 

Vale of Bones, The 705 

Walk at Midnight, The 722 

We meet no more 704 

Why should we weep 699 

Written by an Exile 704 

Yes ; there be some g^y souls .... 698 



TO THE QUEEN. 



Hevercd, beloved — you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arras, or power of brains, or birth 
Could give the ivarrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of hvni that utter d nothing base; 

And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there; 

Then — -while a sweeter music ivakes. 

And thro wild March the throstle calls. 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
For tho the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of your blood 

As noble till the latest day ! 

May children of our children say, 
"She wrought her people lasting good; 

" Jler court was pure ; her life sere7ie ; 

God gave her peace; her land reposed; 

A thousand claiyns to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; 

" And statesmen at her council met 

Who knew the seasons when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 

" By shaping some august decree. 

Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad-based upon her people s luill, 

And compass'd by the inviolate sea." 



March, 1851. 



JUYE]^ILIA. 



CLARIBEL. 

A MELODY. 
I. 

"Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall : 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



At eve the-beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone : 
At noon the wild bee humnieth 

About the moss'd headstone ; 
At midniglit the moon cometh 

And looketli down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth, 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth. 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth, 

The babbling runnel crispeth. 
The hollow grot replieth 

Where Claribel low-lieth. 



NOTHING WILL DIE. 

When will the stream be aweary of 

flowing 
Under my eye 1 
When will the wind be aweary of 
blowing 
Over tlie sky ? 
When will the clouds be aweary of 

fleeting ? 
When will the heart be aweary of 
beating ? 
And nature die ? 
Never, oh! never, nothing will die; 
The stream flows. 
The wind blows, 
The cloud fleets, 
The heart beats. 
Nothing will die. 

Nothing will die ; 
All thinus will change 



Thro' eternity. 
'Tis the world's winter; 
Autumn and summer 
Are gone long ago ; 
Earth is dry to the centre, 
But spring, a new comer, 
A spring rich and strange. 
Shall make the winds blow 
Bound and round, 
Thro' and thro'. 

Here and there, 

Till the air 
And the ground 
Shall be fill'd with life anew. 

The world was never made ; 
It will change, but it will not fade. 
So let the wind range ; 
For even and morn 

Ever will be 

Thro' eternity. 
Nothing was born ; 
Nothing will die ; 
All things will change. 



ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 

Clearly the blue river chimes in its 
flowing 
Under my eye ; 
Warmly and broadly the south winds 
are blowing 
Over the sky. 
One after another the white clouds nre 

fleeting ; 
Every heart this May morning in joy- 
ance is beating 
Full merrily ; 
Yet all things must die. 
The stream will cease to flow ; 
The wind will cease to blow ; 
The clouds will cease to fleet; 
The heart will cease to beat ; 
For all things must die. 
All tilings must die. 
Spring will come never more. 

Oh ! vanity ! 
Death waits at the door. 
See ! our friends are all forsaking 
The wine and the merrymaking. 
We are call'd — we must go. 



LEONINE ELEGIACS. 



Laid low, very low, 
In the dark we must lie. 
The merry glees are still; 
The voice of the bird 
Shall no more be heard, 
Nor the wind on the hill. 

Oh ! misery ! 
Hark ! death is calling 
While I speak to ye. 
The jaw is falling, 
The red cheek paling, 
The strong limbs failing ; 
Ice with the warm blood mixing ; 
The eyeballs fixing. 
Nine times goes the passing bell : 
Ye merry souls, farewell. 

The' old earth 

Had a birth. 

As all men know, 

Long ago. 
And the old earth must die. 
So let the warm winds range. 
And the blue wave beat the shore; 
For even and morn 
Ye will never see 
Thro' eternity. 
All things were born. 
Ye will come never more. 
For all things must die. 



LEONINE ELEGIACS. 

Low-flowing breezes are roaming 
the broad valley dimm'd in the 
gloaming : 

Thoro' the black-stemm'd pines only 
the far river shines. 

Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and 
bowers of rose-blowing bushes, 

Down by the poplar tall rivulets bab- 
ble and fall. 

Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly ; the 
grasshopper carolleth clearly ; 

Deeply the wood-dove coos ; shrilly 
the owlet halloos ; 

Winds creep ; dews fall chilly : in her 
first sleep eartli breathes stilly : 

Over the pools in the burn water-gnats 
murmur and mourn. 

Sadly the far kine loweth : the glim- 
mering water out-floweth : 

Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope 
to the dark hyaline. 

Low-throned Hesper is stayed between 
the two peaks ; but the Naiad 

Throbbing in mild unrest holds him 
beneath in her breast. 

The ancient poetess singcth, that Hes- 
perus all things bringeth. 

Smoothing the wearied mind : bring 
me my love, Rosalind. 

Thou comest morning or even ; she 
cometli not morning or even. 

False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is 
my sweet Rosalind ? 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 

OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND. 

God! my God ! have mercy now. 

1 faint, I fall. Men say that Thou 
Didst die for me, for sucli as me, 
Patient of ill, and death, and scorn. 
And that my sin was as a thorn 
Among the thorns that girt Thy brow. 
Wounding Thy soul. — That even now. 
In this extremest misery 

Of ignorance, I should require 

A sign ! and if a bolt of fire 

Would rive the slumbrous summer 

noon 
While I do pray to Thee alone. 
Think my belief would stronger grow: 
Is not my human pride brought low ? 
The boastings of my spirit still"? 
The joy I had in my freewill 
All cold, and dead, and corpse-like 

grown ■? 
And what is left to me, but Thou 
And faith in Thee 1 Men pass me by j 
Christians with happy countenances — 
And children all seem full of Thee ! 
And women smile with saint-like 

glances 
Like Thine own mother's when she 

bow'd 
Above Thee, on that happy morn 
When angels spake to men aloud. 
And Thou and peace to earth were 

born, 
Goodwill to me as well as all — 
I one of them : my brothers the}' : 
Brothers in Christ — a world of peace 
And confidence, day after day ; 
And trust and hope till things should 

cease. 
And then one Heaven receive us all. 

How sweet to have a common faith ! 
To hold a common scorn of death ! 
And at a burial to hear 
The creaking cords which wound and 

eat 
Into my human heart, whene'er 
Earth goes to earth, with grief, not 

fear. 
With hopeful grief, were passing 

sweet! 

Thrice happy state again to be 
The trustful infant on the knee ! 
Who lets his rosy fingers play 
About his mother's neck, and knows 
Notliing beyond his mother's eyes. 
They comfort him by night and day ; 
They light his little life alway ; 
He hath no thought of coming woes ; 
He hath no care of life or death ; 
Scarce outward signs of joy arise, 
Because the Spirit of happiness 
And perfect rest so inward is; 



CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MIND. 



And loveth so his innocent heart, 
Her temple and her place of birth. 
Where she would ever wish to dwell, 
Life of the fountain there, beneath 
Its salient springs, and far apart. 
Hating to wander out on earth. 
Or breathe into the hollow air. 
Whose chillness would make visible 
Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, 
Which mixing with the infant's blood, 
Fulfils him with beatitude. 
Oh ! sure it is a special care 
Of God, to fortify from doubt. 
To arm in proof, and guard about 
With triple-mailed trust, and clear 
Delight, the infant's dawning year. 

Would that my gloomed fancy were 
As thine, my mother, when with brows 
Propt on thy knees, my hands upheld 
In thine, I listen'd to thy vows. 
For me outpour'd in holiest prayer — 
For me unworthy ! — and beheld 
Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew 
The beauty and repose of faith. 
And the clear spirit shining thro'. 
Oh ! wherefore do we grow awry 
From roots which strike so deep ? why 

dare 
Paths in the desert ? Could not I 
Bow myself down, where thou hast 

knelt, 
To the earth — until the ice would 

melt 
Here, and I feel as thou hast felt ? 
What Devil had the heart to scathe 
Flowers thou hadst rear'd — to brush 

the dew 
From thine own lily, when thy grave 
Was deep, my mother, in the clay 1 
Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I 
So little love for thee ? But why 
Prevail'd not thy pure prayers ? Why 

pray 
To one who heeds not, who can save 
But will not? Great in faith, and 

strong 
Against the grief of circumstance 
Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if 
Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive 
Thro' utter dark a fuU-sail'd skiff, 
Unpiloted i' the echoing dance 
Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low 
Unto the death, not sunk ! I know 
At matins and at evensong. 
That thou, if thou wert yet alive. 
In deep and daily prayers would'st 

strive 
To reconcile me with thy God. 
Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold 
At heart, thou wouldest murmur 

still — 
" Bring this lamb back into Thy fold. 
My Lord, if so it be Thy will." 
Would'st tell me I must brook the rod 
And chastisement of human jiride ; 



That pride, the sin of devils, stood 
Betwixt me and the light of God ! 
That hitherto I had defied 
And had rejected God — that grace 
Would drop from his o'er-brimming 

love, 
As manna on my wilderness, 
If I would pray — that God would 

move 
And strike the hard, hard rock, and 

thence. 
Sweet in their utmost bitterness, 
Would issue tears of penitence 
Which would keep green hope's life. 

Alas ! 
I think that pride hath now no place 
Nor sojourn in me. I am void, 
Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. 

Why not believe then ? Why not yet 
Anchor thy frailty there, where man 
Hath moor'd and rested ? Ask the sea 
At midnight, when the crisp slope 

waves 
After a tempest, rib and fret 
The broad-imbased beach, why he 
Slumbers not like a mountain tarn ? 
AVherefore his ridges are not curls 
And ripples of an inland mere ^ 
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can 
Draw down into his vexed pools 
All that blue heaven which hues and 

paves 
The other ? I am too forlorn. 
Too shaken : my own weakness fools 
My judgment, and my spirit whirls. 
Moved from beneath with doubt and 

fear. 

" Yet," said I in my morn of youth. 
The unsunn'd freshness of my strength. 
When I went forth in quest of truth, 
" It is man's privilege to doubt. 
If so be that from doubt at length, 
Truth may stand forth unmoved of 

change. 
An image with profulgent brows, 
And perfect limbs, as from the storm 
Of running fires and fluid range 
Of lawless airs, at last stood out 
This excellence and solid form 
Of constant beauty. For the Ox 
Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills 
The horned valleys all about. 
And hollows of the fringed hills 
In summer heats, with jilacid lows 
Unfearing, till his own blood flows 
About his hoof. And in the flocks 
The lamb rejoiceth in the year. 
And raceth freely with his fere, 
And answers to his mother's calls 
From the flower'd furrow. In a time. 
Of which he wots not, run sliort pains 
Thro' his warm heart ; and then, from 

whence 
He knows not, on his light there falls 



THE KRAKEN. 



A shadow; and his native slope, 
Where he was wont to leap and climb, 
Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, 
And something in the darkness draws 
His forehead earthward, and he dies. 
Shall man live thus, in joy .and hope 
As a young lamb, who cannot dream. 
Living, but that he shall live on ? 
Shall we not look into the laws 
Of life and death, and things that 

seem. 
And things that be, and analyze 
Our double nature, and compare 
All creeds till we have found the one, 
If one there be ? " Ay me ! I fear 
All may not doubt, but everywhere 
Some must clasp .Idols, Yet, my God, 
Whom call I Idol ? Let Thy dove 
Shadow me over, and my sins 
Be unremember'd, and Thy love 
Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet 
Somewhat before the heavy clod 
Weighs on me, and the busy fret 
Of that sharp-headed worm begins 
In the gross blackness underneath. 

O weary life ! weary death ! 
O spirit and heart made desolate ! 
O damned vacillating state ! 



THE KRAKEN. 

Below the thunders of the upper 
deep ; 

Ear, far beneath in the abysmal sea. 

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded 
sleep 

The Kraken sleepeth : faintest sun- 
lights flee 

About his shadowy sides . above him 
swell 

Huge sponges of millennial growth 
and height ; 

And far away into the sickly light. 

From many a wondrous grot and 
secret cell 

Unnumber'd and enormous polj'pi 

Winnow with giant arms the slumber- 
ing green. 

There hath he lain for ages and will lie 

Battening upon huge seaworms in his 
sleep, 

Until the latter fire shall heat the 
deep ; 

Then once by man and angels to be 
seen. 

In roaring he shall rise and on the 
surface die. 



SONG. 
The winds, as at their hour of birth, 

Leaning upon the ridged sea. 
Breathed low around the rolling earth 
With mellow preludes, " We are 
free." 



The streams through many a lilied row 
Down-carolling to the crisped sea, 

Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow 
Atween the blossoms, " We ar2 
free." 



LILIAN. 
J. 
Airy, fairy Lilian, 
Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me. 
Clasps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all siie can ; 
She'll not tell me if she love me. 
Cruel little Lilian. 



When my passion seeks 
Pleasance in love-sighs. 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me. 
Smiling, never speaks : 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple. 
From beneath her gathered wimple 
Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 
The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 
Then away she flies. 



Prithee weep. May Lilian ! 
Gayety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, May Lilian : 
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth: 

Prithee weep, ISIay Lilian. 



Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee. 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 



ISABEL. 

I. 
Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, 
but fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of 

chastity. 
Clear, without heat, undying, tended 

by 

Pure vestal thoughts in the trans- 
lucent fane 
Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dis- 
pread, 
Madonna-wise on either side her 

head ; 
Sweet lips whereon perpetually 
did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity. 



MARIANA. 



Were fixed shadows of \\\y fixed mood, 

Revered Isabel, the crown and 

head, 

The stately flower of female fortitude. 

Of perfect wifehood and pure 

lowlihead. 



The intuitive decision of a bright 
And thorough-edged intellect to part 
Error from crime ; a prudence to 

withhold ; 
The laws of marriage character'd 
in gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her 
heart ; 
A love still burning upward, giving 

light 
To read those laws ; an accent very 

low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
Of subtle-paced counsel in dis- 
tress, 
Kight to the heart and brain, tho' 
undescried. 
Winning its way with extreme 
gentleness 
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious 

pride ; 
A courage to endure and to oWfey ; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and o£ sway, 
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect 
wife. 



The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon ; 
A clear stream flowing with a muddy 
one. 
Till in its onward current it absorbs 
With swifter movement and in 
purer light 
The vexed eddies of its wayward 
brother : 
A leaning and upbearing parasite, 
Clothing the stem, which else had 
fallen quite 
With cluster'd flower-bells and am- 
brosial orbs 
Of rich fruit-bimches leaning on 

each otlier — 
Shadow fortli thee : — the world 
hath not another 
(Tho' all her fairest forms are types 

of thee, 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA. 

"Mariana iu the moated grange." 

Measure for Measure. 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all : 

The rusted nails fell from the knots 



That held the pear to the gable- 
wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and 
strange : 
Unlifted was the clinking latch ; 
Weeded and. worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
Her tears fell ere the dews were 
dried; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats. 

When thickest dark did trance tho 

sky. 
She drew her casement-curtain by, 
Andglancedathwartthegloomingflats. 
She only said, "The night is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

Upon the middle of the night. 

Waking she heard the night-fowl 
crow : 
The cock sung out an hour ere light : 

From the dark fen the oxen's lov/ 
Came to her : without hope of change. 
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn. 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed 
morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept. 
And o'er it many, round and small. 

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway, 
AH silver-green with gnarled bark : 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, " My life is dreary. 

He cometli not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

And ever when the moon was low. 

And the shrill winds were up and 
away, 
In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low. 

And wild winds bound within their 
cell. 

The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 



Slie only said, "The night is dreary, 
He cometh not," she said ; 

Slie said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

All day within the dreamy house. 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd; 
The blue fly sung in the pane ; the 
mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot 
shriek'd, 
Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors. 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors. 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

The sparrows chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense ; but most she loathed the 

hour 

When the thick-moated sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then, said she, " I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said ; 

She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 

Oh, God, that I were dead ! " 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

With one black shadow at its feet. 

The house thro' all the level shines. 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat. 

And silent in its dusty vines 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right. 
An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore, 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mary," made she moan, 
And "Ave Mary," night and 
morn. 
And " Ah," she sang, " to be all 
alone. 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 

She, as her carol sadder grew. 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest 
brown 
To left and right, and made appear 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine, 
Her melancholy eyes divine, 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And " Ave Mary," was her moan, 
" Madonna, sad is night and 
morn," 



And "Ah," she sang, '!to be all 
alone. 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea, 
Low on her knees herself she cast. 
Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; 
Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load." 
And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her 
moan, 
" That won his praises night 
and morn ? " 
And " Ah," she said, " but I wake 
alone, 
I f3leep forgotten, I wake for- 
lorn." 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would 

bleat. 

Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 

But day increased from heat to heat. 

On stony drought and steaming salt ; 

Till now at noon she slept again. 

And seem'd knee-deep in mountain 

« grass. 
And heard her native breezes pass. 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 
She breathed in sleep a lower 
moan. 
And murmuring, as at night and 
morn. 
She thought, " My spirit is here 

alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke : the babble of the stream 

Fell, and, without, the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sear and small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 
More inward than at night or 
morn, 
" Sweet Mother, let me not here 
alone 
Live forgotten, and die forlorn." 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth. 
For " Love," they said, " must needs 
be true. 
To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seem'd to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say 
" But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone f orevermore." 

" cruel heart," she changed her 
tone, 



TO 



"And cruel love, whose end is 
scorn, 
Is this the end to be left alone, 

To live forgotten, and die for- 
lorn ? " 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

" But thou shalt be alone no more." 
And flaming downward over all 
From heat to heat the day decreased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 
" The day to night," she made her 
moan, 
" The day to night, the night to 
morn, 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 

At eve a dry cicala sung, 

There came a sound as of the sea ; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung. 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, 

And deepening thro' the silent 
spheres 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 
And weeping then she made her moan, 

" The night comes on that knows 
not morn. 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



TO . 

I. 
Clear-headed friend, whose joyful 
scorn. 
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts 
atwain 
The knots that tangle human 
creeds, 
The wounding cords that bind and 
strain 
The heart until it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine : 
If aught of prophecy be mine. 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 



Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit ; 
Falsehood shall bare her plaited 

brow : 
Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not 
now 
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Nor martyr - flames, nor trenchant 
swords 
Can do away that ancient lie ; 



A gentler death shall Falsehood die. 
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning 
words. 

III. 
Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch. 
Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost 

need, 
Thy kingly intellect shall feed. 
Until she be an athlete bold. 
And weary with a finger's touch 
Those writhed limbs of lightning 
speed ; 
Like that strange angel which of old, 

Until the breaking of the light, 
Wrestled with wandering Israel, 
Past Yabbok brook the livelong 
night, 
And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
In the dim tract of Penuel. 



MADELINE. 

I. 
Thou are not steep'd in golden lan- 
guors. 
No tranced summer calm is thine. 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thro' light and shadow thou dost 

range. 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 
Delicious spites and darling angers. 
And airy forms of flitting change. 



Smiling, frowning, evermore. 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles : but who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? 
Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 

Who may know % 
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light-glooming over eyes divine. 
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are 
thine. 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another, 
Each to each is dearest brother ; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore. 
Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
Ever varying Madeline. 



A subtle, sudden flame. 
By veering passion fann'd, 

About thee breaks and dances : 
When I would kiss thy hand, 
The flush of anger'd shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
And o'er black brows drops down 



10 



SOiVG : THE OWL. 



A sudden-curved frown : 
But when I turn away, 
Thou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest , 
But, looking fixedly the while, 

All my bounding heart entanglest 
In a golden-netted smile ; 
Then in madness and in bliss, 
If my lips shotild dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously. 
Again thou blushest angerly ; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 



SONG : THE OWL. 

I. 

When cats run home and light is come, 

And dew is cold upon the ground, 

And the far-off stream is dumb, 

And the whirring sail goes round. 

And the whirring sail goes round ; 

Alone and warming his five wits, 

The white owl in the belfrv sits. 



When merry milkmaids click the latch. 
And rarely smells the new-mown 
hay. 
And the cock hath sung beneath the 
thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his roundelay ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAME. 
I. 

Thy tuwhits are luU'd, I wot, 

Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
Which upon the dark afloat. 
So took echo with delight. 
So took echo with delight. 
That her voice imtuneful grown, 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 

II. 
I would mock thy chant anew ; 

But I cannot mimic it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 

With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo- 
o-o. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE 

ARABIAN NIGHTS. 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn 

blew free 
In the silken sail of infancy, 
The tide of time flow'd back with me, 



The forward-flowing tide of time ; 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adovvn the Tigris I was borne. 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, 
High-walled gardens green and old ; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschiil. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and 

clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue : 
By garden porches on the brim, 
The costly doors flung open wide. 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim. 
And broider'd sofas on each side : 
In sooth it was a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans 

guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-worlc, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which 

crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 
A goodly place, a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, 
Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm. 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they 

clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the 
dome 
Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical. 
Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver-chiming, seemed to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-color'd shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



11 




" Thicl- rosdi-ifis of scented thorn. 
Tall wient shrnhs and nbelisks." 



From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large, 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
"With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odor in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 
Not he : but something which possess'd 
The darkness of the world, delight, 
Life, anguish, death, innnortal love, 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd. 



Apart from place, withholding time. 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber'd: the solemn palms were 

ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : 
A sudden splendor from behind 
Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold- 
green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diamond-plots 
Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



12 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



Dark-blue tlie deep sphere overliead. 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, 
Grew darker from that under-fiamc : 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat, 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool sctft turf upon the bank. 
Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
( )f good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-cliecker'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing- 
round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks, 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn. 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 
Graven with emblems of the time, 
In honor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed visions unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors. 
Flung inward over spangled floors. 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Kan up with golden balustrade. 
After the fashion of the time. 
And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous 
time 

To. celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 
Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony, 
In many a dark delicious curl. 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 
The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side. 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 
Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 
Engarlanded and diaper'd 



With inwrought flowers, a cloth of 

gold. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 
With merriment of kingly pride. 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime. 
The G<)<)i> Harocn Alraschid. 



ODE TO MEMORY. 

ADDRESSED TO . 

1. 

Tnou who stealest fire. 
From the fountains of the past. 
To glorify the present ; oh, haste. 

Visit my low desire ! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this ol)scurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come not as thou earnest of late. 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
( )n the white day ; but robed in sof t- 
en'd light 
Of orient state. 
Whilom thou earnest with the morn- 
ing mist, 
Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn 
have kiss'd. 
When, she, as thou. 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely 

freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest 

shoots 
(Jf orient green, giving safe pledge of 

fruits. 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 



Whilom thou camest with the morn- 
ing mist. 
And with the evening cloud, 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into my 

open breast 
(Those peerless flowers which in the 
rudest wind 
Never grow sear, 
When rooted in the garden of the 
mind. 
Because they are the earliest of the 
year). 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken 

rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant 

Hope. 
The eddying of her garments caught 

from thee 
The light of thy great presence ; and 
the cope 
Of the half-attain'd futurity, 
Tho' deep not fathomless, 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



13 



Was cloven with the million stars 
which tremble 

O'er the deep mind of dauntless in- 
fancy. 

Small thought was there of life's dis- 
tress ; 

For sure she deeni'd no mist of earth 
could dull 

Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and 
beautiful : 

Sure she was nigher to heaven's 
spheres, 



Listening the lordly music flowing 
from 
The illimitable years. 
< ) strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come forth, I charge thee, arise, 
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad 
eyes ! 




''And chieflii from, the broul: that loves 
Til purl o'er mntted cress and ribbed sand." 



Thou comest not with showers of 
flaunting vines 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory ! 
Thou wert not nursed by the water- 
fall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliifs, aloof descried : 
Come from the woods that belt the 

gray hill-side. 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door. 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed 

sand, 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn. 

In every elbow and turn, 
The filter'd tribute of the rough wood- 
land, 



! hither lead thy feet ! 

Pour round mine ears the livelong 
bleat 

Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wat- 
tled folds. 
Upon the ridged wolds, 

When the first matin-song hath 
waken'd loud 

Over the dark dewy earth forlorn. 

What time the amber morn 

Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung 
cloud. 



Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

Withmusicandsweetshowers 
Of festal flowers. 



14 



SONG. 



Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist 
Memory, 
In setting round thy first experiment 
With roya 1 frame-work of wrough t 
gold ; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first 

• • essay, 
And foremost in thy various gallery 
Place it, where sweetest sunlight 

falls 
Upon the storied walls ; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased 

thee, 
That all which thou hast drawn of 
fairest 



Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist- 
like, 
Ever retiring thou dost gaze 
On the prime labor of thine early days : 
No matter what the sketch might be ; 
Whether the high field on the bush- 
less Pike, 
Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped liills that mound the sea. 
Overblown with murmurs harsh, 
Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste 

enormous marsh, 
Where from the frequent bridge, 
Like emblems of infinity. 




' The uir is damp, and JinJi'd, and c/os( , 
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose." 



The trenched waters run from sky to 

sky; 
Or a garden bower'd close 
With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, 
Long alleys falling down to twilight 

grots. 
Or opening upon level plots 
Of crowned lilies, standing near 
Purple-spiked lavender : 
Whither in after life retired 
From brawling storms. 
From weary wind. 
With youthful fancy re-inspired, 

We may hold converse with all 

forms 
Of the many-sided mind, 
And those whom passion hath not 

blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. 



My friend, with you to live alone, 
Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG. 



haunts the year's last hours 
amid these yellowing 



A SPIKI 

Dwellin 

bowers : 
To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly. 
At his work you may hear him sob and 
sigh 
In the walks : 



A CHARACTER. 



15 



Earthward lie bowetli the lieavy 
stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers ; 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 

chilly; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



The air is damp, and hush'd, and close. 
As a sick man's room when he taketh 
repose 
An hour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole 

soul grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting 
leaves, 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box 
beneath. 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 
chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



A CHARACTER. 
With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, " The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things." 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty; that the dull 
Saw no divinity in grass, 
Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; 
Then looking as 'twere in a glass, 
He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his 

hair. 
And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue : not the gods 
More purely, when they wisli to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by : 
And with a sweeping of the arm, 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye. 
Devolved his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hoTir 
He canvass'd human mysteries, 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes. 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek, 
Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed: 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, 
And other than his form of creed, 
Vv^itli chisell'd features clear and sleek. 



THE POET. 
The poet in a golden clime was born. 

With golden stars above; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the 
scorn of scorn, 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' 
good and ill, 
He saw thro' his own soul, 
The marvel of the everlasting will 
An open scroll. 

Before him lay : with echoing feet he 

threaded 

The secretest walks of fame : 

The viewless arrows of his tlioughts 

were headed 

And wing'd with flame. 

Like Indian reeds blown fi-om his sil- 
ver tongue. 
And of so fierce a flight, 
From Cal])e mito Caucasus they sung. 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds wliich 
bore 
Them earthward till they lit ; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field 
flower. 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing 
forth anew 
Where'er they fell, behold. 
Like to the mother plant in sem- 
blance, grew 
A flower all gold, 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to 
fling 
Thy winged shafts of truth. 
To throng with stately blooms tha 
breathing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs 
with beams, 
Tho' one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many 
dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, 
the world 
Like one great garden show'd, 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark 
upcurl'd, 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august 
sunrise 
Her beautiful bold brow. 
When rites and forms before his burn- 
ing eyes 
Melted like snow. 



16 



THE POET'S MIND. 



There was no blood upon Ikt maiden 
robes 
Sunn'd by those orient skies ; 
But round about the circles of the 
globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced 
in flame 
Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of ])ower — a sacred 
name. 
And when she spake, 

Her words did gather thunder as they 
ran. 
And as the lightning to the thun- 
der 
Which follows it, riving the spirit of 
man, 
Making earth wonder, 

So was their meaning to her words. 
No sword 
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with 
liis word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND. 
1. 
Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever, 
Flowing like a cr3'stal river; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 



Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; 

All the place is holy ground ; 
' Hollow smile and frozen sneer 
Come not here. 
Holy M'ater will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it 

around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel 
cheer. 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merry 

bird chants. 
It would fall to the ground if you came 
in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning. 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 



From the brain of the purple moun- 
tain 
Which stands in the distance yon- 
der : 

It springs on a level of bowery lawn. 

And the mountain draws it from 
Heaven above. 

And it sings a song of imdying love ; 

And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and 
full. 

You never would hear it; your ears 
are so dull ; 

So keep where you are: you are foul 
with sin ; 

It would shrink to the earth if you 
came in. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and 
saw. 

Betwixt the green brink and the run- 
ning foam. 

Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms 
prest 

To little harps of gold ; and while they 
mused 

Whispering to each other half in fear, 

Shrill music reach'd them on the mid- 
dle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither 

away ? fly no more. 
Whither away from the high green 
field, and the happy blossoming 
shore ? 
Day and night to the billow the foun- 
tain calls : 
Down shower the gambolling water- 
falls 
From wandering over the lea : 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery -crimson 

shells. 
And thick with white bells the clover- 
hill swells 
High over the full-toned sea : 
hither, come hither and furl your 

sails. 
Come hither to me and to me : 
Hither, come hither and frolic and 

. play ; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day : 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails. 
For here are the blissful downs and 

dales, 
And merrily, merrily carol the gales. 
And the spangle dances in bight and 

bay. 
And the rainbow forms and flies on 

the land 
Over the islands free ; 
And the rainbow lives in the curve of 
the sand ; 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 



17 



Hither, come hither and see ; 

And the rainbow hangs on tlie poising 

wave, 
And sweet is the color of cove and 

cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be : 
O hither, come hither, and be our 

lords, 
Por merry brides are we : 
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak 

sweet words : 



O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
C) listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the 

golden chords 
Runs up tlie ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world 

o'er 7 
Whither away ? listen and stay : 

mariner, mariner, fly no more. 




Life and Tluntght Ixn-e (/one (iirii // 
Side 1)1/ side" 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 
I. 

Life and Thought have gone away 

Side by side, 

Leaving door and windows wide 
Careless tenants they ! 



All within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its liinge before. 



Close the door, the shutters close, 
Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 



Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 



Come away : for Life and Thought 

Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have staid with us! 



THE DYING SWAN. 
I. 
The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air. 



18 



A DIRGE. 



Which had built up everywliere 
An iinder-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan. 
And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 



Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 
And white against the cold -white sky, 
Shone out their crowning snows. 
One willow over the river wept, 



And shook tlie wave as the wind did 

sigh ; 
Above in the wind was the swallow, 
Chasing itself at its own wild will, 
And far thro' the marish green 

and still 
The tangled water-courses slept. 
Shot over witli purple, and green, and 
yellow. 

III. 

The wild swan's death-hymn took the 

soul 
Of that waste jilace with joy 
Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 




" And far thro' the marish green and still 
The tanrjled water-courses slept." 



The warble was low, and full and 

clear ; 
And floating about the under-sky. 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach 

stole 
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; 
But anon her awful jubilant voice. 
With a music strange and manifold, 
Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 
As when a mighty people rejoice 
With shawms, and with cymbals, and 

harps of gold. 
And the tumult of their acclaim is 

roH'd 
Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 
To the shepherd who watcheth the 

evening star. 
And the creeping mosses and clamber- 
ing weeds. 



And the willow-branches hoar and 
dank. 

And the wavy swell of the soughing 
reeds. 

And the wave-worn horns of the echo- 
ing bank. 

And the silvery marish-fiowers that 
throng 

The desolate creeks and pools among, 

Were flooded over with eddying song. 



A DIRGE. 



Now is done tiiy long day's work; 

Fold tliy palms across thy breast, 

Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 



19 



Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 
Let them rave. 



Thee nor carkotli care nor slander ; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Tliou wilt not turn upon thy bed; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny ? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 

The woodbine and eglatcre 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble roses, faint and i)ale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine, 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Wild words wander here and there : 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused : 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was 
gathering light 

Love paced the thymy plots of Para- 
dise, 

And all about him roll'd his lustrous 
eyes; 



When, turning round a cassia, full in 

view, 
Death, walking all alone beneath a 

yew, 
And talking to himself, first met his 

sight : 
" You nmst begone," said Death, 

" these walks are mine." 
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans 

for flight ; 
Yet ere he parted said, " This hour is 

thine : 
Thou art the shadow of life, and as 

the tree 
Stands in the sun and shadows all 

beneath, 
So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of 

death ; 
The shadow passeth wlien the tree 

shall fall, 
But I shall reign forever over all." 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 
Mv heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

( )riana. 
W^hen tlie long dun wolds are ribb'd 

with snow. 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds 
blow, 

< »riana. 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

< )riana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the ycAv-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 

She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana : 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
When forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 



20 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 



The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The damned arrow glanced aside, 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my 
bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace. 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 



They should have stabb'd me where I 
lay, 

Oriana ! 
How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day '? 
They should have stabb'd me where I 
lay, 

Oriana — 
Tliey sliould have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 



O breaking heart that will not break, 
Oriana ! 

pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : 
What wantest thou ? whom dost thou 
seek, 

Oriana "? 

1 cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 

Oriana ! 
() happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana ! 
All night tlie silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 



When Norland winds pipe down tlie 
sea, 

Oriana, 
I walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneatli the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two children in two neighbor villages 

Playing mad pranks along the heathy- 
leas; 

Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 

Two lovers whispering by an orchard 
wall ; 

Two lives bound fast in one with 
golden ease; 

Two graves grass-green beside a gray 
church-tower, 

Wash'd with still rains and daisy blos- 
somed ; 

Two children in one liamlet born and 
bred ; 

So runs the Vound of life from hour 
to hour. 



THE MERMAN. 

|. 
Who would be 
A merman bold. 
Sitting alone. 
Singing alone 
Under tlie sea. 
With a crown of gold. 
On a throne ? 



I would be a merman bold, 

I would sit and sing the whole of the 
day; 

I would fill the sea-halls with a voice 
of power; 

But at night I would roam abroad and 
play 

With the mermaids in and out of the 
rocks. 

Dressing their hair with the white sea- 
flower ; 

And holding them back by their flow- 
ing locks 

I would kiss them often under the sea, 

And kiss them again till they kiss'd 
me 
Laughingly, laughingly ; 

And then we would wander away, away 

To the pale-green sea-groves straight 
and high, 
Chasing eacli other merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 



21 



There would be neither moon nor star ; 

But the wave would make music above 
us afar — 

Low thunder and light in the magic 
night — 
Neither moon nor star. 

We would call aloud in the dreamy 
dells, 

Call to each other and whoop and cry 
All night, merrily, merrily ; 

They would pelt me with starry span- 
gles and shells, 

Laughing and clapping their hands 
between. 
All night, merrily, merrily : 

But I would throw to them back in 
mine 

Turkis and agate and almondine : 

Then leaping out upon them unseen 

I would kiss them often under the sea, 

And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 
Laughingly, laughingly. 

Oh ! what a happy life were mine 

Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! 

Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; 

We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 

I. 
Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone. 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea, 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne 1 



I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of 

the day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb 

my hair ; 
And still as I comb'd I would sing and 

say, 
" Who is it Ipves me ■? who loves not 

mel" 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets 
would fall 

Low adown, low adown. 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around. 
And I should look like a. fountain of 
gold 

Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound. 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall ; 
Till that great sea-snake imder the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central 

deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 



Round the hall where I sate, and look 

in at the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love 

of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 



But at night I would wander away, 

away, 
I would fling on each side my low- 
flowing locks. 
And lightly vault from the throne and 

play 
With the mermen in and out of the 

rocks ; 
We would run to and fro, and hide 

and seek. 
On the broad sea-wolds in the crim- 
son shells, 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the 

sea. 
But if any came near I would call, and 

shriek, ^ 

And adown the steep like a wave I 

would leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut 

from the dells ; 
For I would not be kiss'd by all who 

would list, 
Of the bold merry mermen under the 

sea; 
They would sue me, and woo me, and 

flatter me. 
In the purple twilights under the 

sea ; 
But the king of them all would carry 

me. 
Woo me, and win me, and marry 

me, 
In the branching jaspers under the 

sea; 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet 

silently. 
All looking up for the love of me. 
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, 

and soft 
Would lean out from the hollow sphere 

of the sea. 
All looking down for the love of 

me. 



ADELINE. 
I. 
Mystery of mysteries, 

Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 

But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair ; 



22 



MARGAKE T. 



Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my 
breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadow}-, dreaming Adeline ? 



Whence that aery bloom of thine, 
Like a lily which the sun 

Looks tliro' in his sad decline, 
And a rose-bush leans upon, 

Thou that faintly smilest still, 
As a Naiad in a well, 
Looking at the set of day, 

Or a phantom two hours old 
Of a maiden past away, 

Ere the placid lips be cold ? 

Wherefore tliose faint smiles of 
thine, 
Spiritual Adeline ? 



What hope or fear or joy is thine ? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou jirt not all alone. 
Do beating hearts of salient 
springs 
Keep measure with thine own ? 

Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their 

wings ? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what A'oice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or when little airs arise. 
How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath % 
Hast thou look'duponthebreath 
Of the lilies at sunrise ? 
AVherefore that faint smile of thine. 
Shadowy, dreamy Adeline '^. 



Some honey-converse feeds thy mind. 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee 1 whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow. 
And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 



Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies ? 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the 
morn. 
Dripping with Sabaean spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn. 
Breathing Light against thy face, 
While his locks a-drooping twined 
Round thy neck in subtle ring 



Make a carcanet of rays. 

And ye talk together still. 
In tlie language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 



MAEGARET. 
I. 
SWEET pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power, 
Like moonlight on a falling shower '. 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 
Of pensive thought and aspect 

pale. 
Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower '■' 
Erom the westward-winding flood, 
From the evening-lighted wood. 

From all things outward you have 
won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 
The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent 

cheek, 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound. 
Like the tender amber round, 
Which the moon about her spread- 
eth. 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 



You love, remaining peacefully, 

To hear the murmur of the strife. 
But enter not the toil of life. 
Your spirit is the calmed sea, 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 
You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and 
bright : 
LulI'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow 

light 
Float by you on the verge of 
night. • 

III. 
What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning 
stars 
The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro' his prison 
bars ■? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can 
tell 
The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the falling axe did part 
The burning brain from the true 
heart. 
Even in her sight he loved so 
well? 



ROSALIND. 



23 



A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitude.';, 

, You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods, 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch'd with a somewhat darker 
hue, 



And less aerially blue, 
But ever-trembling thro' the dew. 
Of dainty-woful sympathies. 



O sweet pale Margaret, 

rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and liear me 

speak : 
Tie up the ringlets on yowx cheek : 

Tlie sun is just about to set, 
The arching limes are tall and shady, 




" sweet pale Margaret, 
rare pale itarfjaret." 



And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving in the leavy beech. 
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, 
Where all day long you sit 
between 
Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn. 

Look out below your bower-eaves, 
Look down, and let your blue eyes 
dawn 
Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 



ROSALIND. 
I. 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
My frolic falcon, with bright eyes, 
Whose free delight, from any height 

of rapid flight. 
Stoops at all game that wing the skies, 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 



My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon 

whither. 
Careless both of wind and weather, 
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, 
Up or down the streaming wind 1 



The quick lark's closest-caroU'd 

strains. 
The shadow rushing up the sea, 
The lightning flash atween the rains, 
The sunlight driving down the lea. 
The leaping stream, the very wind. 
That will not stay, upon his way. 
To stoop the cowslip to the plains, 
Is not so clear and bold and free 
As you, my falcon Rosalind. 
You care not for another's pains. 
Because you are the soul of joy. 
Bright metal all without alloy. 
Life shoots and glances thro' your 

veins, 



24 



ELEANORE. 



And flashes off a thousand ways, 
Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays. 
Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright, 
Keen with triumph, watching still 
To pierce me thro' with pointed light ; 
But oftentimes they flash and glitter 
Like sunshine on a dancing rill, 
And your words are seeming-bitter. 
Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter 
From excess of swift delight. 



Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind : 
Too long you keep the upper skies ; 
Too long you roam and wheel at will; 
But we must hood your random eyes, 
That care not whom they kill, 
And your cheek, whose brilliant hue 
Is so sparkling-fresh to view. 
Some red heath-flower in the dew, 
Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind 
And keep you fast, my Rosalind, 
Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, 
And clip your wings, and make you 

love : 
When we have lured you from above, 
And that delight of frolic flight, by 

day or night. 
From North to South, 
We'll bind you fast in silken cords, 
And kiss away the bitter words 
From off your rosy mouth. 



ELEANORE. 
I. 
Thy dark eyes open'd not. 

Nor first reveal'd themselves to 
English air. 
For there is nothing here. 
Which, from the outward to the inward 

brought. 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood, 
Thou wert born, on a summer 
morn, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not 
fann'd 
With breezes from our oaken 
glades, 
But thou wert nursed in some delicious 
land 
Of lavish lights, and floating 
shades : 
And flattering thy childish thought 
The oriental fairy brought. 
At the moment of thy birth. 
From old well-heads of haunted rills. 
And the hearts of purple hills, 

And shadow'd coves on a sunny 
shore. 
The choicest wealth of all the 
earth. 



Jewel or shell, or starry ore. 
To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 



Or the yellow-banded bees. 
Thro' half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze, 
Fed thee, a child, lying alone. 

With whitest honey in fairy gar- 
dens cuU'd — 
A glorious child, dreaming alone. 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding 
down. 
With the hum of swarming bees 
Into dreamful slumber luU'd. 



Who may minister to thee? 
Summer herself should minister 
To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be, 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
Grape-thicken'd from the light, and 
blinded 
With many a deep-hued bell-like 
flower 
Of fragrant trailers, \»licn the air 
Sleepeth over all the heaven. 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowing shore, 
Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleanore ! 



How many full-sail'd verse express. 
How many measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleanore ? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleiinore ? 
Every turn and glance of thine. 
Every, lineament divine, 

Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow. 
That stays upon thee '? For in thee 
Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; 
Like two streams of incense free 
From one censer in one shrine, 
Thought and motion mingle, 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho' 
They were modulated so 

To an unheard melody. 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 
Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; 
Who may express thee, Eleanore ? 



I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

I see thy beauty gradually imfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 



ELEANORE. 



25 



Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, 
Comes out thy deep ambrosical smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

Tlie languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, 
To stand apart, and to adore, 
Gazing on thee forevermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 



Sonietimes, with most intensity 

Gazing, I seem to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling 

asleep. 
Slowly awaken'd, gi-ow so full and deep 
In thy large eyes, that, overpowef'd 

quite, 
I cannot veil, or droop my sight. 
But am as nothing in its light : 
As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 
Ev'n while we gaze on it. 
Should slowly round his orb, and 

slowly grow 
To a full face, there like a sun remain 
Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, 
And draw itself to what it was 

before ; 
So fidl, so deep, so slow. 
Thought seems to come and go 
In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. 



As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, 
Roof'd the world with doubt and 
fear, 
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere. 
Grow golden all about the sky ; 
In thee all passion becomes passion- 
less, 
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness. 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation. 
Falling into a still delight. 

And luxury of contemplation : 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 
Shadow forth the banks at will : 
Or sometimes they swell and move. 
Pressing up against the land, 
With motions of the outer sea : 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 
Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand. 
Droops both liis wings, regarding 
thee. 
And so would languish evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleiinorc. 



But when I see thee roam, with tresses 

unconfined, 
While the amorous, odorous wind 



Breathes low between the sunset 
and the moon ; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon, 
On silken cushions half reclined ; 

I watch thy grace ; and in its 
place 
My heart a charm'd slumber 
keeps, 
While I muse upon thy face ; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 

From thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon. 
With dinning sound my ears are 
rife. 
My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
I lose my color, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of 
warmest life. 
I die with my delight, before 
I hear what I would hear from 

thee ; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I loould be dying evermore, 
So dying ever, Eleiinore. 



My life is full of weary days, 

But good things have not kept aloof, 

Nor wander'd into other ways : 

I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, 

Nor golden largess of thy praise. 

And now shake hands across the brink 
Of that deep grave to which I go : 

Shake hands once more : I cannot sink 
So far — far down, but I shall know 
Thy voice, and answer from below. 



When in the darkness over me 

The four-handed mole shall scrape. 

Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree. 
Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful 

crape. 
But pledge me in the flowing grape. 

And when the sappy field and wood 
Grow green beneath the showery 
gray, 
And rugged barks begin to bud, 
And thro' damp holts new-flush'd 

with may. 
King sudden scritches of the jay, 

Then let wise Nature work her will, 
And on my clay her darnel grow ; 

Come only, when the days are still, 
And at my headstone whisper low, 
And tell nie if the woodbines blow. 



26 



EARLY SONNETS. 



EARLY SONNETS. 
1. 

TO . 

As when witli downcast eyes we muse 

and brood, 
And ebb into a former life, or seem 
To lapse far back in some confused 

dream 
To states of mystical similitude ; 
If one but speaks or hems or stirs his 

chair, 
Ever the wonder waxeth more and 

more, 
So that we say, " All this hath been 

before, 
All this hath been, I know not when 

or where." 
So, friend, when first I look'd ui)on 

your face, 
Our thought gave answer each to each, 

so true — 
Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — 
That tho' I knew not in what time or 

place, 
Methought that I had often met with 

you. 
And either lived in either's heart and 

speech. 

u. 

TO J. M. K. 

My hope and heart is with thee — thou 

wilt be 
A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 
To scare church-harpies from the 

master's feast ; 
Our dusted velvets have much need 

of thee : 
Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old 

saws, 
Distill'd from some worm-canker'd 

homil}' ; 
But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 
To embattail and to wall about thy 

cause 
With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 
The humming of the drowsy pulpit- 
drone 
Half God's good sabbath, while the 

worn-out clerk 
Brow-beats his desk below. Thou 

from a throne 
Mounted in lieaven wilt shoot into the 

dark 
Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and 

mark. 

III. 
Mine be the strength of spirit, full 

and free, 
Like some l)road river rushing down 

alone. 
With the self-same im'pulse wherevrith 

he was thrown . 
From his loud fount upon the echoing 

lea : — 



Which with increasing might doth for- 
ward flee 

By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, 
and isle, 

And in the middle of the green salt sea 

Keeps his blue Maters fresh for many 
a mile. 

Mine be the power which ever to its 
sway 

Will win the wise at once, and by 
degrees 

May into uncongenial spirits flow ; 

Ev'n as the warm gulf-stream of 
Florida 

Floats far away into the Northern seas 

The lavish growths of southern Mex- 
ico. 



ALEXANDER. 



Warrior of God, whose strong right 
arm debased 

The throne of Persia, when her Satrap 
bled 

At Issvis by the Syrian gates, or fled 

Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pits, 
disgraced 

Forever — thee (thy pathway sand- 
erased) 

Gliding with equal crowns two ser- 
pents led 

Joyful to that palm-planted fountain- 
fed 

Ammonian Oasis in the waste. 

There in a silent shade of laurel brown 

Ai^art the Chamian Oracle divine 

Shelter'd his vmapproached mysteries : 

High things were spoken there, un- 
handed down ; 

Only they sa^v thee from the secret 
shrine 

Returning with hot cheek and kindled 
eyes. 

v. 
BUONAPARTE. 

He thought to quell the stubborn 

hearts of oak. 
Madman ! — to chain with chains, and' 

bind with bands 
That island queen who sways the floods 

and lands. 
From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight 

woke. 
When from her wooden walls, — lit by 

sure hands, — 
With thunders, and with lightnings, 

and with smoke, — 
Peal after peal, the British battle 

broke, 
Lulling the brine against the Coptic 

sands. 
We taught liim lowlier moods, when 

Elsinore 
Heard the war moan along the distant 

sea. 



EARLY SONNETS. 



27 



Rocking with shatter'd spars, with 

sudden fires 
Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet onci' 

more 
We taught him : late he learned 

humility 
Perforce, like those whom Gideon 

school'd with briers. 

VI. 

POLAND. 

How long, O God, shall men be ridden 

down, 
And trampled under by tlie last and 

least 
Of men 1 The heart of Poland hath 

not ceased 
To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth 

drown 
The fields, and out of every smoulder- 
ing town 
Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in- 
creased, 
Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the 

East 
, Transgress his ample bound to some 

new crown : — 
Cries to Thee, " Lord, how long shall 

these things be % 
How long this icy-hearted Muscovite 
Oppress the region ? " Us, O Just and 

Good, 
Forgive, who smiled when she was torn 

in three ; 
Us, who stand now, when we should 

aid the right — 
A matter to be wept with tears of 

blood! 



Caress'd or chidden by the slender 

hand, 
And singing airy trifles this or that, 
Light Hope at Beauty's call would 

perch and stand. 
And run thro' every change of sharj^ 

and flat ; 
And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, 
When Sleep had bound her in his rosy 

band. 
And chased away tlie still-recurring 

gnat. 
And woke her with a lay from fairy 

land. 
But now they live with Beauty less 

and less, 
For Hope is other Hope and wanders 

far, 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious 

creeds ; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness, 
Pool" Fancy sadder than a single 

star. 
That sets at twilight in a land of 

reeds. 



The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 

A nobler yearning never broke her 
rest 

Than but to dance and sing, be gayly 
drest. 

And win all eyes with all accomplish- 
ment : 

Yet in the whirling dances as we went, 

My fancy made me for a moment blest 

To find my heart so near the beauteous 
breast 

That once had power to rob it of con- 
tent. 

A moment came the tenderness of 
tears. 

The phantom of a wish that once could 
move, 

A ghost of passion that no smiles re- 
store — 

For ah ! the slight coquette, she can- 
not love. 

And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand 
years. 

She still would take the praise, and 
care no more. 



Wan SculiJtor, weepest thou to take 

the cast 
Of those dead lineaments that near 

thee lie ? 

sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the 

past, 
In painting some dead friend from 

memory ? 
Weep on : beyond his object Love can 

last : 
His object lives : more cause to weep 

have I : 
My tears, no tears of love, are flowing 

fast, 
No tears of love, but tears that Love 

can die. 

1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup, 
Nor care to sit beside her where she 

sits — 
Ah pity — hint it not in human tones, 
But breathe it into earth and close it 

up 
With secret death forever, in the pits 
Which some green Christmas crams 

with weary bones. 



If I were loved, as I desire to be. 
What is there in the great sphere of 

the earth. 
And range of evil between death and 

birth. 
That I should fear, — if I were loved 

by thee ? 
All the inner, all the outer world of 

pain 



28 



THE LADY OF SIIALOTT. 



Clear Love would pierce and cleave, 

if thou wert mine, 
As I have lieard that, somewhere in 

the main. 
Fresh-water springs come up through 

bitter hrine. 
'Twere joy, not fear, claspt hand-in- 
hand with thee, 
To wait for death — mute — careless 

of all ills, 
Apart upon a mountain, tho' the surge 
Of some new deluge from a thousand 

hills 
Flung leagues of roaring foam into 

the gorge 
Below us, as far on as eye could see. 



THE BRIDESMAID. 

BRIDESMAID, crc the happy knot 

was tied. 
Thine e3^es so wept that they could 

hardly see; 
Thy sister smiled and said, "No tears 

for me ! 
A happy bridesmaid makes a happy 

bride." 
And then, the couple standing side by 

side, 
Love lighted down between them full 

of glee. 
And over his left shoulder laugh'd at 

thee, 
" O happy bridesmaid, make a happy 

bride." 
And all at once a pleasant truth I 

learn'd, 
For while the tender service made thee 

weep, 

1 loved thee for the tear thou couldst 

not hide, 

And prcst thy hand, and knew the 
press return'd, 

And thought, " My life is sick of sin- 
gle sleep : 

O happy bridesmaid, make a happy 
bride ! " 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

TART I. 

( )n either side of the river lie 
Long fields of barle.v and of rye. 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below 

The island of Shalott. 

t 
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs forever 



By tlie island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 

Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 

Overlook a space of flowers, 

And the silent isle imbowers 
The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd. 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd. 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known in all the land. 

The Lady of Shalott 1 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot : 
And by the moon the reaper wearj^ 
Piling sheaves in ui^lands airy. 
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 



There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be,. 
And so she weaveth steadily. 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world ajipear. 
There she sees the highwa/ near 

Winding down to Camelot : 
There the river eddy whirls. 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two ; 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot : 
Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



29 



" I am half sick of shadows," said 
The Lady of Slialott. 

PART III. 

A BOW-SHOT from hen- bower-eaves, 
He rode between tlie barley-sheaves. 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 
Of bold Sir Lancelot. 



A red-cross knight forever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 
Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free. 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 




Out flew the tceb and floated wide ; 
The mirror craclc'd from side to side , 
The curse is come upon me,' cried 
The Lady of Shalott." 



As he rode down to Camelot : 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A might}' silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode liis armor rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle- 
leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burningflame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro' the purple night. 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 



His broad clear brow in sunlight 

glow'd ; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse 

trode ; 
From underneath his helmet tlow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
"Tirra lirra," by the river 
Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom. 
She made three paces thro' the room. 
She saw the water-lily bloom. 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 



30 



THE TWO VOICES. 



She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror craek'd from side to side; 
" The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



Ix the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks com- 
plaining, 
Heavily the low sky raining. 

Over tower'd Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat. 
And round about the prow she wrote 

'llie Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse 
Like some bold seer in a trance. 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in sno'O'y white. 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

Dead-pale between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her 
name. 

The Lachi of Shalott. 

Who is this ''. and what is here '? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sounil of ro^^al cheer ; 
And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot: 
But Lancelot mused a little space; 
He said, " She has a lovely face ; 



God in liis mercv lend her grace, 
The Lady of Shalott." 



THE TWO VOICES. 

A STiLi. small voice spake unto me, 
" Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to be ? " 

Then to the still small voice I said ; 
" Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made." 

To which the voice did urge reply ; 

"To-day I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie.. 

" An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk : from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 

" He dried his wings : like gauze they 

grew ; 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew." 

I said, " When first the world began, 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

" She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest, 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied; 

" Self-blinded are you by yoiir pride ; 

Look up thro'night : the world is wide. 

" This truth witliin thy mind rehearse, 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 

" Think j^ou this mould of hopes and 

fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres 1 " 

It spake, moreover, in my mind . 

" Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, 

Yet is there i:)lenty of the kind." 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
"No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all." 

To which he answer'd scoffingly ; 

" Good soul ! supi)ose I grant it thee,. 

Who'll weep for thy deficiency ? 

" Or will one beam be less intense, 

When thy j)eculiar difference 

Is canccll'd in the world of sense ? "" 



THE TWO VOICES. 



31 



I would have said, " Thou canst not 

know," 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me : 
" Thou art so steep'd in misery, 
Surely 'twere better not to be. 

" Thine anguish wiU'not let thee sleep, 
Nor any train of reason keep : 
Thou canst not think, but thou wilt 
weep." 

I said, " The years with cliange ad- 
vance : 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

" Some turn this sickness yet might 

take, 
Ev'n yet." But he : " What drug can 

make 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake ? " 

I wept, " Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 

" And men, thro' novel spheres of 

thought 
Still moving after truth long sought, 
Will learn new things when I am not." 

" Yet," said the secret voice, " some 

time, 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

" Not less swift souls that yearn for 

liglit, 
Rapt after heaven's starry flight. 
Would sweep the tracts of day and 

night. 

"Not less the bee would range her cells. 
The furzy prickle fire the dells, 
The foxglove cluster dapjiled bells." 

I said that " all the years invent ; 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 

" Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power ? " 

" The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
" Still sees the sacred morning sj)read 
The silent summit overhead. 

" Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain. 
Just breaking over land and main '? 



" Or make that morn, from his cold 

crown 
And crystal silence creeping down. 
Flood witli full daylight glebe and 

town ? 

" Forerun tli.y peers, thy time, and let 
Thy feet, millenniums lience, be set 
In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. 

" Thou hast not gain'd a real height. 
Nor art thou nearer to tlie light, 
Because the scale is infinite. 

'"Twere better not to breathe or speak. 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak. 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

" Moreover, but to seem to find 
Asks what thou lackest, thought re- 

sign'd, 
A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 

I said, " When I am gone away, 
' He dared not tarry,' men will say, 
Doing dishonor to my clay." 

" This is more vile," he made reply, 
"To lireathe and loathe, to live and 

sigh. 
Than once from dread of pain to die. 

" Sick art thou — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

"Do tnen love thee? Art thou so 

bound 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee lying underground ? 

" The memory of the wither'd leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 

" Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; 
The right ear, that is fiU'd with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just." 

" Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
" From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 

" Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me in the days 
While still I yearn'd for human praise. 

" When, wide in soul and bold of 

tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung. 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 

"I sung the joyful Prean clear. 
And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 
The brand, the buckler,and the spear— 



32 



THE TWO VOICES. 



" "Waiting to strive a happy strife, 
To war witli falsehood to the knife, 
And not to lose the good of life — 

" Some hidden principle to move, 
To put together, part and prove. 
And mete the bounds of hate and 

love — 

« 
" As far as might be, to carve out 
Pree space for every iiuman cioubt, 
That the whole mind might orb 

about — 

" To search through all I felt or saw, 
The springs of life, the depths of awe. 
And reach the law within the law : 

" At least, not rotting like a weed, 
But, having sown some generous seed. 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

" To pass when Life her light with- 
draws, 
Not void of righteous self -applause. 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

" In some good cause, not in mine own 
To perish, wept for, honor'd, known, 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

" Whose eyes are dim with glorious 

tears, 
When soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
His country's war-song thrill his ears : 

" Then dying of a mortal stroke. 
What time the f oeman's line is broke. 
And all the war is rolled in smoke." 

" Yea ! " said the voice, " thy dream 

was good. 
While thou abodcst in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 

" If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower. 
Who is it that could live an hour ? 

" Then comes the check, the change, 

the fall. 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 

"Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a 

chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

" Thou hadst not between death and 

birth 
Dissolved the riddle of tlie earth. 
So were thy labor little-worth. 

" That men witii knowledge merely 

play'd, 
I told tliee — hardly nigher made, 
Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; 



" Much less tliis dreamer, deaf and 

Wind, 
Named man, may liope some trutli to 

find, 
That bears relation to the mind. 

" For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and 

soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

" Cry, faint not : either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam foi-lorn. 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 

" Cry, faint not, climb : the summits 

slope 
Beyond the furthest flights of hope, 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to 

cope. 

" Sometimes a little corner shines. 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

" I will go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look uj), the fold is on her brow. 

" If straight tliy track, or if oblique, 
Thou know'st not. Shadows thou 

dost strike. 
Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; 

" And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor. 
Calling thyself a little lower 

" Than angels. Cease to wail and 

brawl ! 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? 
There is one remedy for all." 

" dull, one-sided voice," said I, 
" Wilt thou make every thing a lie, 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

" I know that age to age succeeds, 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

" I cannot hide that some have striven. 
Achieving calm, to Avhom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven : 

"Who, rowing hard against the stream, 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam. 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

"But heard, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

" Which did accomplish their desire. 
Bore and forebore, and did not tire. 
Like Stephen, an uninienclied fire. 



THE TWO VOICES. 



" He heeded not reviling tones, 
Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 
Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised 
with stones : 

" But looking upward, full of grace, 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

" Not that the grounds of hope were 

fix'd. 
The elements were kindlier mix'd." 

I said, " I toil beneath the curse, 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

" And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

"Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense. 
Be fix'd and f roz'n to permanence : 

" For 1 go, weak from suffering here : 
Naked I go, and void of cheer : 
What is it that I may not fear ? " 

" Consider well," the voice replied, 
*' His face, that two hours since hath 

died; 
Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride 1 

" Will he obey when one commands ? 
Or answer should one pi-ess his hands 1 
He answers not, nor understands. 

" His palms are folded on his breast : 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

" His lips are very mild and meek : 
Tho' one should smite him on the 

cheek. 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

" His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace, 
Becomes dishonor to her race — 

" His sons grow up that bear his name, 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

" He will not hear the north-wind rave. 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

" High up the vapors fold anil swim : 
About him broods tlie twiliglit dim- 
The place he knew forgetteth liini." 



" If all be dark, vague voice," I said, 
" These things arc wrapt in doubt and 

dread, 
Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 

"The sap dries up: the' plant declines. 
A deeper tale my heart divmes. 
Know I not Death? the outward signs \ 

" I found him when my years were few ; 
A shadow on the graves I knew. 
And darkness in the village yew. 

" From grave to grave the shadow 

crept : 
In her still i)lace the morning wept : 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 

" The simple senses crown'd his head . 
' Omega ! thou art Lord,' they said, 
' We find no motion in the dead.' 

" Wliy, if man rot in dreamless ease. 
Should that plain fact, as taught by 

these, 
Not make him sure that he shall cease? 

" Who forged that other influence, 

That heat of inward evidence, 

By wliich he doubts against the sense ? 

"He owns the fatal gift of eyes, 
That read his spirit blindly wise, 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

" Here sits he shaping wings to fly : 
His heart forebodes a mystery : 
He names the name Eternity. 

" That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

" He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

" The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many things perplex, 
With motions, checks, and counter- 
checks. 

" He knows a baseness in his blood 
At such strange war with something 

good. 
He may not do the tiling he would. 

" Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 
"Vast images in glimmering dawn, 
Half shown, are broken and with- 
drawn. 

"Ah! sure witliin him and without, 
Could liis dark wisdom find it out, 
There must be answer to his doubt. 



34 



THE TWO VOICES. 



" But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain, 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

" The doubt would rest, I dare not 

solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve." 

As when a billow, blown against. 
Falls back, the voice with which I 

fenced 
A little ceased, but recommenced. 

" Where wert thou when thy father 

play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade "? 

" A merry boy they call'd him then, 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again. 

"Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Their course, till thou wert also maiv 

" Who took a wife, who rear'd his race. 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his days : 

" A life of nothings, nothing-worth, 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! " 

" These words," I said, " are like the 

rest ; 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

"But if I grant, thou mightst defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end ; 

" Yet how should I for certain hold 
Because my memory is so cold. 
That I first was in human mould "? 

" I cannot make this matter plain, 
But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

" It may be that no life is found, 
Wiiich only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

"As old mythologies relate. 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 

" As hero we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream tliat happens then. 
Until they fall in trance again. 



" So miglit we, if our state were such 
As one before, remember much. 
For those two likes might meet and 
touch. 

"But if I lapsed from nobler place. 
Some legend of a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace; 

" Some vague emotion of delight 
In gazing up an Alpine height. 
Some 3earning toward the lamps of 
night; 

"Or if thro' loAver lives I came — 
Tho' all experience jiast became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

" I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haunts of memory echo not. 

" And men, wliose reason long was 

blind. 
From cells of madness unconfined. 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

" Much more, if first I floated free, 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory : 

" For memory dealing but with time. 
And he with matter, could she climb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

" Moreover, something is or seems. 
That touches me witli mj'stic gleams. 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

"Of something felt, like something 

here ; 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare." 

The still voice laugh'd. " I talk," 

said he, 
" Not with thy dreams. SuflBce it thee 
Thy pain is a reality." 

"But thou," said I, " hast missed thy 

mark. 
Who sought'st to wreck thy mortal 

ark, 
By making all the horizon dark. 

" Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, tliat which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new ? 

" Wliatever crnzy sorrow saitii, 

No life that breathes with human 

breatii 
Has ever truly long'd for death. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



35 



" 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are 

scant, 
Oh life, not death, for which we pant ; 
More life, antl fuller, that I want." 

I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 
"Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 
When meres begin to uncongeal. 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

On to God's house the people prest : 
Passing the place where each must rest, 
Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife and child. 
With measin-ed footfall firm and mild. 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure, 
The little maiden walk'd demure. 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet, 
My frozen heart began to beat, 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander'd on : 
I spoke, biit answer came there none : 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A little whisper silver-clear, 

A murmur, " Be of better cheer." 

As from some blissful neighborhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

" I see the end, and know the good." 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

" I may not speak of what I know." 

Like an ^Eolian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes : 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : 
" What is it thou knowest, sweet 

voice ? " I cried. 
" A hidden hoiie," the voice replied : 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the 
shower, 



To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veik'th love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went. 
And Natin-e's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, 
The slow result of winter showers : 
You scarce could see the grass for 
flowers. 

I wonder'd while I paced along : 
The woods were fiU'd so full with song. 
There seem'd no room for sense of 
wrong ; 

And all so variously wrought, 

I marvell'd how the mind was brought 

To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, " Rejoice ! Re- 
joice ! " 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

I SEE the wealthy miller yet, 

His double chin, his portly size. 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes % 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, 
Seem'd half-within and half-without. 

And full of dealinars with the world ? 



In yonder chair I see him sit, 

Three fingers round the old silver 
cup — 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of sunnner warmth, so glad. 
So healthy, sound, and clear and 
whole, 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 

My own sweet Alice, we must die. 
There's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by and by. 
There's somewhat flows to us in life, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife. 

That we may die the self-same day. 

Have I not found a happy earth ? 

I least should breathe a thought of 
pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I'd almost live my life again. 



36 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



So sweet it seems with tliee to walk, 
And once again to woo thee mine — 

It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the wahiuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boy 

Late-left an orjjhan of the squire, 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down ui)on the village spire: 
Por even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so long, 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin song. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 

In firry woodlands making moan ; 
But ere I saw yowx eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
Por scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant 
dream — 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the 
stream. 

Or from the bridge I lean'd ta hear • 

The milldam rushing down with 
noise, 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and poise, 
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones. 
Or those three chestnuts near, that 
hung 

In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that, 

When after roving in the woods 
('Twas April then), I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their 
buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 

And on tlie slope, an ab.sent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you. 

But angled in the higher pool. 

A love-song I had somewliere read. 

An echo from a measured strain. 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long. 

With weary sameness in the rhymes, 
The pJiantom of a silent song. 

That went and came a thousand 
times. 

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watch'd the little circles die; 
They past into the level flood. 

And there a vision caught my eye ; 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a- gleaming neck, 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Withirt the dark and dimpled beck. 



For you remember, you had set, 

That morning, on the casement-edge 
A long green box of mignonette, 
And you were leaning from the 
ledge : 
And when I raised my eyes, above 
They met with two so full and 
bright — 
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, 
Tliat these have never lost tlieir 
light. 



I loved, and love disiiell'd tlie fear 

That I should die an early death : 
For love possess'd the atmosphere, 

And fill'd the breast with purer 
breath . 
My mother tliought, What ails the 
boy? 

For I was alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with joy, 

And with the certain step of man. 



I loved the brimming wave that swam 

Thro' quiet meadows round the mill. 
The sleepy pool above the dam, 

Tlie pool beneath it never still. 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, 

Tlie dark round of the dripping 
wheel. 
The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meal. 

And oft in ramblings on the wold, 

When April niglits began to blow, 
And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, 

I saw the village lights below ; 
I knew your taper far away. 

And full at heart of trembling hope, 
From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 



The deep brook groan'd beneath the 
mill ; 

And " by that lamp," I tliought, 
" she sits ! " 
The white ciialk-quarry from the hill 

Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. 
"O that I were beside her now! 

O will slie answer if I call ? 
O would she give me vow for vow. 

Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? " 



Sometimes I saw you sit and spin : 

And, in the pauses of the wind, 
Sometimes 1 heard you sing within ; 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the 
blind. 
At last you rose and moved the light, 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night. 

And all tlie casement darken'd there. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



37 



But when at last I dared to speak, 
The lanes, you know, were white 
with may, 
Your ripe lips moved not, but your 
cheek 
Flush'd like the coming of the day ; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-sliy, 
You would, and would not, little 
one ! 
Although I pleaded tenderly. 
And 3'OU and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire: 
She wish'd me happy, but she thought 

I might have look'd a little higher ; 
And I was young — too young to wed ; 

" Yet must I love her for your sake ; 
Go fetch your Alice here," she said : 

Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 

And down I went to fetch my bride : 

But, Alice, you were ill at ease; 
This dress and that by turns you tried, 

Too fearful that you should not 
please. 
I loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well ; 
And dews, that would have fall'n in 
tears, 

I kiss'd away before they fell. 

I watch'd the little flutterings. 

The doubt my mother would not 
see ; 
She spoke at large of many things, 

And at the last she spoke of me ; 
And turning look'd upon your face, 

As near this door you sat apart. 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart to 
heart. 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers — that I may seem, 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream; 

While those full chestnuts whisper 

by- 

It is the miller's daughter 
And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

That I woidd be the jewel 
That trembles in her ear : 

For hid in ringlets day and night, 

I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 
About her dainty dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me, 
In sorrow and in rest : 

And I should Ivnow if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace. 

And all day long to fall and rise 
Upon her balmy bosom. 



With her laughter or her feighs, 
And I would lie so light, so light, 
1 scarce should be unclasi)'d at night. 

A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells — 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells. 

For all the spirit is his own. 
So, if I waste words now, in truth 

You must blame Love. His early 
rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in youth, 

And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours arc gone, 

Like mine own life to me thou art, 
Where Past and Present, wound in 
one. 

Do make a garland for the heart : 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half-anger'd with my happy lot. 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

I found the blue Forget-me-not. 

Love that hath us in the net 
Can he pass, and we forget? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 
Even so. 

Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle liabit links us yet. 
What is love? for we forget : 
Ah, no! no! 

Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True 
wife. 
Round my true heart thine arms in- 
twine 
My other dearer life in life, 

Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
LTntouch'd with any shade of years, 

May those kind eyes forever dwell ! 
They have not shed a many tears, 
Dear eyes, since first I knew them 
well. 

Yet tears they shed: they had their 
part 

Of sorrow : for when time was ripe. 
The still iiffection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type. 
That into stillness past again, 

And left a want unknown before , 
Although the loss has brought us pain, 

That loss but made us love the more. 

With farther lookings on. The kiss. 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss. 

The comfort, I have found in thee : 
But that God bless thee, dear — who 
wrought 
Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or 
thought. 
With blessings which no words can 
find. 



3S 



FA TIM A. 



Arise, and let us wander forth, 

To yon old mill across the wolds ; 
For look, the sunset, south and nortli, 

"Winds. all the vale in rosy folds, 
And fires your narrow casement glass, 

Touching the sullen pool below : 
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 



FATIMA. 

<) Love, Love, Love! O withering 
might ! 

sun, tliat from thj^ noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sight. 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and 

blind, 
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers : 

1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
I roU'd among tlie tender flowers : 

I crush'd them on my breast, my 

mouth ; 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his 

name, 
From my swift blood that went and 

came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 
O Love, O fire ! once he drew 
With one long kiss my whole soul 

thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know- 
He Cometh quickly : from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, 

blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening from swoon to 

swoon, 
Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 

Tlie wind sounds like a silver wire, 
And from beyond tlie noon a fire 
Is pour'd upon the liills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light. 
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce 

delight. 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently. 
All naked in a sultry sky, 
Droops blinded with his shining eye : 
I H-'iU possess him or will die. 



I will grow round him in his place. 
Grow, live, die looking on his face. 
Die, (h'ing clasp'd in his embrace. 



(ENONE. 
Theke lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
Than all the vallej's of Ionian hills. 
The swimming vapor slopes athwart 

the glen, 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from 

pine to pine. 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either 

hand 
The lawns and meadow-ledges mid- 
way down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below 

them roars 
The long brook falling thro' the 

clov'n ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Behind the valley topmost Gargai'us 
Stands up and takes the morning : but 

in front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, 
The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful OSnone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the 

hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round 

her neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in 

rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined 

with vine, 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- 
shade 
Sloped downward to her seat from the 

upper cliff. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 

Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the 

hill : 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass : 
The lizard, with his shadow on the 

stone, 
Bests like a shadow, and the winds 

are dead. 
The purple flower droops : the golden 

bee 
Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of 

love. 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes 

are dim. 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 

Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Hear me, Earth, hear me, O Hills, 

Caves 



(ExVONE. 



39 



That house the cold crown 'd snake ! ( ) 

mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build 

up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder 

walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly 

breathed, 
A cloud that gather'd shape : for it 

may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper 



" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 
Ida, 

Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

I waited underneath the dawning hills, 

Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy- 
dark. 

And dewy-dark aloft the mountain 
pine : 

Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 

Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, 
white-hooved, 

Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Far-off the torrent call'd me from the 
cleft : 

Far up the solitary morning smote 

The streaks of virgin snow. With 
down-dropt eyes 

I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 

Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leop- 
ard skin 

Droop'd from his shoulder, but his 
sunny hair 

Cluster'd about his temples like a 
God's : 

And his cheek brighten'd as the foam- 
bow brightens 

When the wind blows the foam, and 
all my heart 

Went forth to embrace him coming 
ere lie came. 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

He smiled, and opening out his milk- 
white palm 

Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian 
gold, 

That smelt ambrosially, and while I 
look'd 

And listen'd, the full-flowing river of 
speech 

Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own Qi^none, 

Beautif ul-brow'd CEnone, my own soul. 

Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind 
ingrav'n 

"For the most fair," would seem to 
award it thine, 

As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 



The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of mar- 
ried brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He j)rest the blossom of his lips to mine, 
And added ' This was, cast upon the 

board, 
When all the full-faced presence of 

the Gods 
Eanged in the halls of Peleus ; where- 

iipon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 

'twere due : 
But light-foot Iris brought it yester- 

eve. 
Delivering, that to me, by common 

voice 
Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within 

the cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest 

pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, 

unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of 

Gods.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery 

cloud 
Had lost his way between the piney 

sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower 

they came, 
Naked they came to that smooth- 
swarded bower. 
And at their feet the crocus brake like 

fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose, 
And overhead the wandering ivy and 

vine, 
This way and that, in many a wild 

festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled 

boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' 

and thro'. 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
On the tree-toi3s a crested peacock lit. 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, 

and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant 

dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to 

whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that 

grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the 

Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris 

made 



40 



CENONE. 



Proffer of rojal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, ' from 

many a vale 
And river-simder'd champaign clothed 

with corn, 
Or labor'd mine undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax 

and toll, 
From many an inland town and haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing 

citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest 

towers.' 

" mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Still she spake on and still she spake 
of power, 

' Which in all action is the end of all ; 

Power fitted to the season ; wisdom- 
bred 

And tlironed of wisdom — from all 
neighbor crowns 

Alliance and Allegiance, till thy hand 

Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such 
boon from me, 

PYom me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to 
thee king-born, 

A shepherd all thy life but yet king- 
born, 

Should come most welcome, seeing 
men in i)ower 

Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 

Pest in a happy place and quiet seats 

Above the thunder, with undying bliss 

In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

"Dear motiier Ida, liearken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly 

fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the 

thought of power 
Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where 

she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared 

limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold. 
The while, above, her full and earnest 

eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry 

cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made 

reply. 

" ' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, 
self-control. 

These three alone lead life to sover- 
eign power. 

Yet not for power (power of herself 

Would come uncall'd for) but to live 
by law, 

Acting the law we live bv without fear ; 



And, because right is right, to follow 
right 

Were wisdom in the scorn of conse- 
quence.' 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die- 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with 

gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I 

am. 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of 

fair, 
Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee 

sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave 

to thee. 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a 

God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of 

shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance 

grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown 

will. 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceas'd, 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O 

Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me 

not. 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is 

me ! 

" O mother Ida, raanv-f ountain'd Ida. 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful. 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in 

Paphian wells, 
With rosy slender fingers backward 

drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her 

deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid 

throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her 

light foot 
Shone rosy -white, and o'er her rounded 

form 
Between the shadows of the vine- 
bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she 

moved. 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild 

eyes, 
The herald of her triumph, drawing 

nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise 

thee 



(ENONE. 



41 



The fairest and most lovintj wife in 

Greece,' 
She spoke and laugh'd : I shut mj^ 

sight for fear : 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised 

his arm, 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes. 
As she withdrew into tiie golden cloud. 
And I was left alone within the bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone. 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

■ " Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Fairest — why fairest wife '\ am T not 
fair? 

My love hath told me so a thousand 
times. 

Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, 

When I past by, a wild and wanton 
pard. 

Eyed like the evening star, with play- 
ful tail 

Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most 
loving is she ? 

All me, my mountain shepherd, that 
my arms 

Were wound about thee, and my hot 
lips prest 

Close, close to thine in that quick- 
falling dew 

Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn 
rains 

Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" O mother, hear, me yet before I die. 

They came, they cut away my tallest 
pines, 

My tall dark pines, that plumed the 
craggy ledge 

High over the blue gorge, and all 
between 

The snowy peak and snow-white cata- 
ract 

Foster'd the callow eaglet — from be- 
neath 

Whose thick mysterious boughs in the 
. dark morn 

The panther's roar came muffled, while 
I sat 

Low in the valley. Never, never more 

Shall lone CEnone see tlie morning 
mist 

Sweep thro' them ; never see them 
overlaid 

With narrow moon-lit slips of silver 
cloud. 

Between the loud stream and the trem- 
bling stars. 

" mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in- the ruin'd 

folds, 
Among the fragments tumbled from 

the glens. 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with 

her 



The iVbominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair releian banquet-hall. 
And cast the golden fruit upon the 

board, 
And bred this change ; that I might 

speak my mind. 
And tell her to her face how much 1 

hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and 

men. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand 

times. 
In this green valley, under this green 

hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this 

stone ? 
Seal'd it with kisses Y water'd it with 

tears ? 
O happy tears, and liow unlike to 

these ! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see 

my face ■? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear 

my weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-float- 

ing cloud. 
There are enough unhappy on this 

earth. 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to 

live : 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of 

life, 
And shadow all my soul that I may 

die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart 

within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me 

die. 

" mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more 

and more. 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the 

inmost hills, 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a 

mother 
Conjectures of the features of her 

child 
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder 

comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's 

eyes ! 

" mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, earth. I will not die alone, 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come 

to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of 

Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 



42 



THE SISTERS. 



With the Greek woman. I will rise 

and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars 

come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she 

says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
AVhat this may be I know not, but t 

know 
That, whereso'er I am by night and 

day, 
All earth and air seem only burning 

fire." 



THE SISTERS. 

We were two daughters of one race : 
She was the fairest in tlie face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

She died : she went to burning flame : 

She mix'd her ancient blood with 

shame. 

The wind is howling in turret and 

tree. 

Whole weeks and months, and early 

and late. 
To win his love I lay in wait : 
O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I made a feast ; I bade him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and 
tree. 
And after supper, on a bed, 
Upon m_v lap he laid his head : 

( ) the Earl was fair to see ! 

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest: 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell. 
But I loved his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I rose up in the silent night : 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breatli he drew, 
Three times 1 stabb'd him thro' and 
thro'. 

the Earl was fair to see ! 

I curl'd and comb'd liis comely head, 
He look'd so grand when he was dead. 

The wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet. 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

the Earl was fair to see ! 



TO . 

WITH THE POLLOWIXO FOEM. 

I SEN!) you here a sort of allegory, 

(For you will understand it) of a soul, 

A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 

A spacious garden full of flowering 
weeds, 

A glorious Devil, large in heart and 
brain, 

That did love Beauty only, (Beauty 
seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind) 

And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if 
Good, 

Good only for its beautj', seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, 
are three sisters 

That dote upon each other, friends to 
man. 

Living together under the same roof, 

And never can be sunder'd without 
tears. 

And he that shuts Love out, in turn 
shall be 

Shut out from Love, and on her thresh- 
old lie 

Howling in outer darkness. Not for 
this 

Was common clay ta'eii from tiie com- 
mon earth 

Moulded by God, and temjH-r'd with 
tlie tears 

Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

I ntiiLT my soul a lordly pleasure- 
house. 
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " Soul, make merry and 
carouse. 
Dear soul, for ail is well." 

A huge crag-platform, smootli as bur- 
nish'd brass 
1 chose. The ranged ramparts 
bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or 
shelf 
The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And " while the world runs round and 
round," I said, 
" Reign thou apart, a quiet king. 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stead- 
fast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



43 



To which my soul made answer 
readily : 
" Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion that is built for 
nie, 
So ro'.al-rieh and wide." 



Pour eourts I made, East, West and 
Soutli and North, 



In each a squared lawn, v.lierefrom 
Tile r.olden };orL:e of dragons si])outed 
lortli 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there 
ran a row 
Of cloisters, branch'd like miglity 
woods. 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 




" One ahoiv'd (III I nil} const inui LUKirij iiyirrs 
} ou seem'd to hear them vlimb (uul fall." 



And round the roofs a gilded gallery 
That lent broad verge to distant 
lands, 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where 
the sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 



From tliose four jets four cin-rent.s in 
one swell 
Across the mountain stream'd below 
In misty folds, that floating as they 
fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 



44 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



And higli on every i)eak ;i statue 
seem'tl 
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor 
steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, " And who shall 
gaze upon 
My palace with unblinded eyes, 
While this great bow will waver in the 
sun, 
And that sweet incense rise ' " 

For that sweet incense rose and never 
fail'd, 
And, while day sank or mounted 
higher. 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd. 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd 
and traced. 
Would seem slow-flaming crimson 
fires 
From shadow'd grots of arches inter- 
laced. 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was. 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom. 
Thro' whicli the livelong day my soul 
did pass. 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the 

palace stood, 

All various, each a perfect wliole 

From living Nature, fit for every mood 

And change of my still soul. 

For some were Imng with arras green 
and blue, 
Showing a gaudj' summer-morn. 
Where witli putf'd cheek the belted 
hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seem'd all dark and red — a tract 
of sand. 
And some one pacing there alone. 
Who j)aced forever in a glimmering 
land. 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry 
waves. 
You seem'd to hear them climb and 
fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellow- 
ing caves. 
Beneath the windy wall. 



And one, ;i full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain, 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding 
low, 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry 
toil. 
In front they bound the sheaves. 
Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in 
oil, 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one a foreground black with 
stones and slags, 
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long wliite cloud the 
scornful crags. 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home — gray 
twilight pour'd 
On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep —all things in order 
stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape 
fair, 
As fit for every mood of mind, 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, 
was there 
Not less than truth design'd. 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix. 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardo- 
nyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

( )r in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. 
Cecily ; 
An angel look'd at her. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and 
eyes 
That said, We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded 
son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 

To list a foot-fall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian 
king to liear 
Of wisdom and of law. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



45 




" On dewti pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep." 



Or over hills with peaky tops en- 
grail'd, 
And many a tract of palm and 
rice, 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly 
sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 



Or sweet Europa's mantle blew uii- 
clasp'd, 
From off her shoulder backward 
borne : 
From one hand droop'd a crocus : one 
hand grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 



46 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



Or else flush'd Ganymede, liis roKv 
thigh 
Half-buried in the Eagle's down 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar'd town. 

Nor these alone : but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was 
there, 
Not less than life, desisrn'd. 



Then in the towers I placed great bells 
that swung. 
Moved of themselves, with silver 
sound ; 
And with choice paintings of wise men 
I hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph 
strong. 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and 
mild ; 
And there the world-worn Dante 
grasp'd his song, 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the 

rest; 

A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 

A hundred winters snow'd upon his 

breast, 

From cheek and throat and chin. 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately- 
set 
Many an arch high up did lift, 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of everj^ 
land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden 

slow, 

Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads 

and stings ; 

Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 

The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break 
or bind 
All force in bonds that might en- 
dure. 
And here once more like some sick 
man declined. 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod : and those 
great bells 
Began to chime. She took her 
throne : 



She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And thro' the topmost Oriels' colored 

flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below ; 

Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Veru- 

1am, 

The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their 
motion were 
Full-welling fountain-heads of 
change, 
Betwixt the slender shafts were bla- 
zon'd fair 
In diverse raiment strange : 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, 
emerald, bhie, 
Flush'd in her temples, and her eyes. 
And from her lips, as morn from 
Memnon, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone, 
JNIore than my soul to hear her echo'd 
song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring in her feast- 
ful mirth. 
Joying to feel herself alive. 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible 
earth, 
Lord of the senses five ; 

Communing with herself : " All these 
are mine. 
And let the world have peace or 
wars, 
'Tis one to me." She — when young 
night divine 
Crown'd dying day with stars, 

Making sweet close of his delicious 

toils — 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems, 

And pure quintessences of precious 

oils 

In hoUow'd moons of gems. 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her 
hands and cried, 
" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and 
wide, 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

" O all things fair to sate my various 
eyes! 
O shapes and hues that please me 
well! 
O silent faces of the Great and Wise, 
My Gods, with whom I dwell ! 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



47 



" O God-like isolation which art mine, 

I can but count thee perfect gain. 
What time I watch the darkening 
droves of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

" In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient 
skin, 
They graze and wallow, breed and 
sleep ; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in, 
And drives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral instinct would she 
prate 
And of the rising from tlie dead. 
As hers by right of fuU-accomplish'd 
Fate; 
And at the last she said : 

" I take possession of man's mind and 
deed. 
I care not what the sects may brawl. 
I sit as God holding no form of creed, 
But contemplating all." 



Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone. 
Yet not the less held she her solemn 

mirth, 
, And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper'd : so 
three years 
She prosper'd : on the fourth she 
fell. 
Like Herod, when the shout was in 
his ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she 

turn'd her sight 

The airy hand confusion wrought, 

Wrote, " Mene, mene," and divided 

quite 

The kingdom of her thought. 

J^eep dread and loathing of her soli- 
tude 
Fell on her, from which mood was 
born 
Scorn of herself ; again, from out that 
mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

" What ! is not this my place of 
strength," she said, 
" My spacious mansion built for me, 



Whereof the strong foundation-stones 
were laid 
Since my first memory ? " 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping 
tears of blood. 
And horrible nightmares. 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of 
flame. 
And, with dim fretted foreheads all. 
On corpses three-months-old at noon 
she came, 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without 
light 
Or power of movement, seem'd my 
soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars 
of sand. 
Left on the shore ; that hears all 
night 
The plunging seas draw backward 
from the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry 
dance 
Join'd not, but stood, and standing 
saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circum- 
stance 
Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had 
curl'd. 
"No voice," she shriek'd in that 
lone hall, 
"No voice breaks thro' the stillness 
of this world: 
One deep, deep silence all ! " 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's 
mouldering sod, 
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame. 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name ; 

And death and life she hated equally. 

And nothing saw, for her despair. 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity. 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Remaining utterly confused with 
fears, 
And ever worse with growing time, 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime : 



48 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 



Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt 
?ound 
"With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully 
sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walk- 
ing slow, 
In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if it be thunder, or a 
sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep 
cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then tliinketh, 
" I have found 
A new land, but I die." 

She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of ^epl3^ 
What is it that will take away my sin, 
And save me lest I die?" 

So when four years were wholly liii- 
ished, 
She threw her royal robes away. 
" Make me a cottage in the vale," she 
said, 
" Where 1 may mourn and pray. 

" Yet pull not down my palace towers, 

that are 
So lightly beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others 

there 
When I have purged my guilt." 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 
Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere j^ou went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your 
name. 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence I 
came. 
Kor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that dotes on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find. 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love ; 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 



Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my 
head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have 
blown 
Since I beheld young Laurence 
dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 
Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's 
view. 
She had the passions of her kind. 
She spake some certain truths of 
you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
Her manners had not that repose 
Which stamps the caste of Vere de 
Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at your door : 

You changed a wholesome heart to 
gall. 
You held your course without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest 
worth, 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us 
bent 
The gardener Adam and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Ilowe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets. 

And simple faith tlian Norman 
blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 
You pine among your halls anil 
towers : 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless 
wealth. 
But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time, 
You needs must play such pranks 
as these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate. 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, 
Fray Heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



49 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear , 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; 

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say. 

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 




A)i(} I'm to be Qiieeit o' the Maj, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May." 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall ncA'er wake, 

If you do not call nie loud when the day begins to break : 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in wliite, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not M-hat they say, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'"the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 

They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? 

Tliere's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



50 THE MAY QUEEN. 



Little Effie shall go with nie to-morrow to the green, 

And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Que^n ; ' 

For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in s\vami).s and hollows gray. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass. 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call )ne early, mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise ujion the glad New-year. 

It is the last New-j'ear that I shall ever see. 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; 
And the New-year's poming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the i)lackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel co)>se. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white cliiiiiney-tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills : tlie frost is on the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : 
1 long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

Tiie building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree. 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with sununer o'er the wave, 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine. 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm ujjon the hill, 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrusli in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 51 



I have been wild juul wayward, but you'll forgive me now; 
You'll kiss rae, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; ' 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,' 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
The' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face • 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say. 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forcvermore 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; 
Don't let EfBe come to see me till my grave be growing green : 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : 
Let her take 'em : they are liers : I shall never garden more : 
But tell hf-r, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set 
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 

CONCLUSION. 

I THOTiGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the Iamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies. 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow. 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 

And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in : 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be. 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat. 
There came a sweeter token when the night anil morning meet : 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And EflSe on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and "the wind began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd. 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 



52 



THE L O TOS-EA TERS. 



I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping; and I said, " It's not for them : it's mine." 
And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

() look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 

He shines ujion a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 

And there I move no longer now, and tliere his light may sliine — 

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 
Forever and forever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? 

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home — 

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — 

To lie within the light of God, as I lie u})on your breast — 

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 
" Courage ! " he said, and pointed 

toward the land, 
"This mounting wave will roll us 

shoreward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a 

land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did 

swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary 

dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the 

moon ; 
And like a downward smoke, the slen- 
der stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and 

fall did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a down- 
ward smoke. 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, 
did go ; 

And some thro' wavering lights and 
shadows broke. 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam 
below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward 
flow 



From the inner land: far off, three 

mountain-tops. 
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
Stood sunsct-flush'd; and, dew'd with 

showery drops, 
Up-clomb the s'ladowy pine above the 

woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low 
adown 

In the red West : thro' mountain clefts 
the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow 
down 

Border'd with palm, and many a wind- 
ing vale 

And meadow, set with slender galin- 
gale ; 

A land where all things always seem'd 
the same ! 

And round about the keel with faces 
pale. 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos- 
eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted 

stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof 

they gave 



THE L O TOS-EA TEKS. 



To each, but whoso did receive of 

them, 
And taste, to him the pushing of tlie 

wave 



Far far away did seem to mourn and 

rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow 

spake, 




" And like a (hiicmrard smoke, the slender stream 
Alone/ the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.' 



His voice was thin, as voices from the 

grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all 

awake, 
And music in his ears his beating heart 

did make. 



They sat them <lown ujion the yellow 
sand, 



Between the sun and moon upon the 
shore ; 

And sweet it was to dream of Father- 
land, 

Of child and wife, and slave ; but 
evermore 

Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the 
oar, 

Weary the wandering fields of barren 
foam. 



54 



THE L O TOS-EA 7 EKS. 



Then some one said, " We will return 

no more ; " 
And all at once they sang, " Our island 

home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no 

longer roam." 



CHORIC SONG. 

I. 

There is sweet music liere that softer 

falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the 

grass. 
Or night-dews on still waters between 

walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming- 
pass; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes ; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down 

from the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leaved 

flowers weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the popi\v 

hangs in sleep. 



Wliy are wd.weigh'd upon with heavi- 
ness, 

And utterly consumed witli sliarji dis- 
tress, 

While all tilings else have rest from 
weariness ? 

All tilings have rest : why shouUl we 
toil alone. 

We only toil, who are the first of 
things. 

And make perpetual moan. 

Still from one sorrow to another 
thrown : 

Nor ever fold our wings. 

And cease from wanderings, 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy 
balm ; 

Nor hearken what the inner spirit 
sings, 

" There is no joy but calm ! " 

Why should we only toil, the roof and 
crown of things ? 



Lo ! in the middle of the wood, 

The folded leaf is woo'd from out tlie 

bud 
With winds upon tlie branch, and 

there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no 

care, 
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
Falls, and floats adown the air. 



Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light, 
The full-juiced apple, waxing over- 
mellow, 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days. 
The flower ripens in its place, 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath 

no toil. 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



Hateful is the dark-blue sky. 
Vaulted o'er tlie dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life ; ah, why 
Should life all labor be 7 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward 

fast, 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last? 
All things are taken from us, and be- 
come 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful 

Past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we 

liave 
To war with evil ? Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing 

wave 1 
All things have rest, and ripen toward 

the grave 
In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, dark deatli, 

or dreamful ease. 



How sweet it were, liearing the down- 
ward stream. 
With half-shut e3es ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder 

nmber light, 
Whicli will not leave the myrrli-bush 

on the height ; 
Tolieareach other's whisjjer'd speech; 
Eating the Lotos day by day, 
To watcli the crisping ripples on the 

beach, 
And tender curving lines of creamy 

spray ; 
To lend our hearts and spirit wliolly 
To tlie influence of mild-minded mel- 
ancholy ; 
To muse and brood and live again in 

memory. 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in 
an urn of brass ! 



Dear is the memory of our wedded 

lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our 

wives 



THE L O rOS-EA TERS. 



55 



And their warm tears : but all liatli 

suffer'd change : 
For surely now our household hearths 

are cold : 
Our sons hiherit us : our looks are 

strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to 

trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes over-bold 



Have eat our substance, and the min- 
strel sings, 

Before them of the ten years' war in 
Troy, 

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten 
things. 

Is there confusion in the little isle ? 

J^et what is broken so remain. 

The Gods are hard to reconcile : 








ri'st ijfi. 



hroth 



ii'r m<irincr> 



ire mil not irnnfler more.' 



'Tis hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion Avorse than deatli, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
Long labor unto aged breath. 
Sore task to hearts worn out by many 

wars 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on 

the pilot-stars. 



But, propt on beds of amaranth and 
moly. 



How sweet (wliile warm airs lull lis, 

blowing lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelid still, 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river draw- 
ing slowly 
His waters from the purple hdl — 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave thro' the thick- 
twined vine — 
To watch the emerald-color'd water 
fallintr 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreatli 
divine ! 

Only to hear and see the far-off spar- 
kling brine, 

Only to hear were sweet, stretcli'd out 
beneath the pine. 



The i^otos blooms below the barren 

peak : 
The Lotos blows by every-windinsj 

creek : 
All day the wind breathes low with 

mellower tone : 
Thro' everj^ liollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the 

yellow Lotos-dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and 

of motion we, 
KoU'd to starboard, roU'd to larboard, 

when the surge was seetliing 

free, 
Where the wallowing monster spouted 

his foam-fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it witli 

an equal mind, 
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and 

lie reclined 
On the hills like Gods together, care- 
less of mankind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and 

the bolts are hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and 

the clouds are lightly curl'd 
Ivound their golden houses, girdled 

with the gleaming world : 
Where they smile in secret, looking 

over wasted lands. 
Blight and famine, plague and earth- 
quake, roaring deeps and fiery 

sands, 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, 

and sinking ships, and praying 

hands. 
But they smile, they find a music cen- 
tred in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an 

ancient tale of wrong. 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the 

words are strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men 

that cleave tlie soil. 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest 

witli enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, 

and wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suifer — 

some, 'tis wliisper'd — down in 

hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in 

Elysian valleys dwell. 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds 

of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet 

than toil, the sliore 



Than labor \:\ the deep mid-ocean, 
wind and wave and oar ; 

( )li rest 3'e, brother mariners, we Avill 
not wander more. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

I KEAi), before my eyelids dropt their 
shade, 
" The. Legend of Good Women" long 
ago 
Sung by the morning-star of song, 
who made 
His music heard below ; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose 
sweet breath 
Preluded thosemelodious bursts that 
fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a wh.ile, the knowledge of 
his art 
Held me above the subject, as 
strong gales 
Hold swollen clouds from raining, 
tho' my lieart, 
Brimfid of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. 
In every land 
1 saw, wherever light illumineth, 
Heauty and anguisli walking hand in 
hand 
The downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides oi ancient 
song- 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burn- 
ing stars. 
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, 
and wrong. 
And trumpets blown for wars ; 

And clattering flints batter'd with 
clanging hoofs ; 
And I saw crowds in column'd 
sanctuaries ; 
And forms that pass'd at windows 
and on roofs 
Of marble x^alaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold ; heroes 
tall 

Dislodging piimaelc and jiarapet 
Upon the tortoise cree])ing to the wall ; 

Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with 
heated blasts 
'i'iiat run before the fluttering 
tongues of fire ; 



A DREAM OF FAIR IFOMEy. 



"White surf wind-scatterM over sails 
and masts, 
And ever climbing higher ; 

Squadrons and squares of men in 
brazen jjlates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, 
divers woes. 
Ranges of glimmering vaults with 
iron grates, 
And hush'd seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, 
when to land 
Bluster the winds and tides the 
self-same way, 
Crisp foam-flakes scud along the 
level sand, 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in 
pain. 
Resolved on noble things, and 
strove to sjieak. 
As when a great thought strikes along 
the brain, 
And flushes all the cheek. 

. And once my arm was lifted to hew 
down 
A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 
That bore a lady from a leaguer'd 
town ; 
And then, I know not how, 

All those sharp fancies, by down- 
lapsing thouglit 
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, 
and did creep 
RoU'd on each other, rounded, 
smooth'd, and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wan- 
der'd far 
In an old wood : fresh-wash'd in 
coolest dew 
The maiden splendors of the morning 
star 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop 
and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood under- 
neath 
Their broad curved branches, fledged 
with clearest green, 
New from its silken sheath. 

The dim red morn had died, her 
journey done, 
And with dead lips smiled at the 
twilight plain, 
Half-fall'n across the threshold of 
the sun. 
Never to rise again. 



There was no motion in the dumb 
dead air. 
Not any song of bird or sound of 
rill; 
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of 
jasmine turn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree 
to tree, 
And at the root thro' lush green 
grasses burn'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, 
I knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid 
dawn 
On those long, rank, dark wood-walks 
drench'd in dew. 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the 
green, 
Pour'd back into my empty soul 
and frame 
The times when I remember to have 
been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

And from within me a clear under- 
tone 
Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that un- 
blissful clime, 
" Pass freely thro' : the wood is all 
thine own, 
Until the end of time." 

At length I saw a lady within call. 
Stiller than chisell'd marble, stand- 
ing there ; 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall. 
And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with 
surprise 
Froze my swift speech : she turning 
on my face 
The star-like sorrows of immortal 
eyes. 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

" I had great beauty : ask thou not 
my name : 
No one can be more wise than 
destiny. 
Many drew swords and died. 
Where'er I came 
I brought calamity." 

" No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair 
field 
Myself for such a face had boldly 
died," 



58 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



I answer'd free ; and turning I ap- 
peal'd 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, witli sick and scornful looks 
averse, 
To her full height her stately stat- 
ure draws ; 
" M)'^ youth," she said " was blasted 
with a curse : 
This woman was the cause. 

" I was cut off from hope in that sad 
place. 
Which men call'd Aulis in those 
iron years : 
My father held his hand upon his face ; 
I, blinded with mj^ tears, 

" Still strove to speak : my voice was 
tliick with sighs 
As in a dream. Dimly I could 
descry 
The stern black-bearded kings with 
wolfish eyes, 
"Waiting to see me die. 

" The high masts flicker'd as they lay 
afloat ; 
The crowds, the temples, waver'd, 
and the shore ; 
The bright death quiver'd at the vic- 
tim's throat ; 
Touch'd ; and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward 
brow : 
" I would the white cold heavy- 
plunging foam, 
Whirl'd by the wind, had roU'd me 
deep below. 
Then when I left my home." 

Her slow full words sank thro' the 
silence drear. 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping 
sea : 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, 
" Come here, 
That I may look on tlice." 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery 
rise, 
One sitting on a crimson scarf un- 
roll'd ; 
A queen, with swarthy cheeks and 
bold black eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, 
began : 
" I govern'd men by change, and 
so I sway'd 
All moods. "lis long since I have 
seen a man. 
Once, like the moon, I made 



" The ever-shifting currents of the 
blood 
According to my humor ebli and 
flow. 
I have no men to govern in this wood : 
That makes my only woe. 

"Nay — yet it chafes me that I could 
not bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor witli 
mine eye 
That dull cold-blooded Ca;sar. 
Prythee, friend, 
AVhere is Mark Anton}' ? 

" The man, my lover, with whom I 
rode sublime 
On Fortune's neck : we sat as God 
by God : 
The Nilus would have risen before his 
time 
And flooded at our nod. 

" We drank the Libyan Sun to sleej), 
and lit 
Lamps which out-burn'd Canopus. 
( ) my life 
In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit. 
The flattery and the strife, 

" And the wild kiss, when fresh from 
war's alarms. 
My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my 
arms. 
Contented there to die ! 

" And there he died : and when I heard 
my name 
Sigh'd forth with life I would not 
brook my fear 
Of the other : with a worm I balk'd 
his fame. 
What else was left ? look here ! " 

(With that she tore her robe ajiart, 
and half 
The polish'd argent of her breast to 
sight 
Laid bare. Thereto she pointed witii 
a laugh, 
Showing tlie aspick's bite.) 

" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier 
found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my 
brows, 
A name forever ! — Ij^ing robed and 
crown'd, 
Worthy a Roman sjiouse." 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest 
range 
Struck by all passion, did fall down 
and ijlance 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



59 



From tone to tone, and glided thro' all 
change 
Of liveliest iitterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for 
delight : 
Because with sudden motion from 
the ground 



She rais'd her piercing orbs, and fill'd 
with light 
The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keen- 
est darts ; 
As once they drew into two burning 
rings 




Thi (huKjliti I- i;/' tlw warrior Gileaditf : 
A maiden jnin'." 



All beams of Love, melting tiie mighty 
hearts 
Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I 
heard 
A noise of some one coming thro' 
the lawn, 



And singing clearer than the crested 
bird 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

"The torrent brooks of hallow'd 
Israel 
From craggy hollows pouring, late 
and soon, 



60 



A DREAM OF FAIR IVOMEA'. 



Sound all niglit long, in falling thro' 
the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

" The balmy moon of blessed Israel 
Floods all the deep-blue gloom with 
beams divine : 
All night the splinter'd crags that wall 
the delf 
With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sun- 
shine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' 
the door 
Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 

"Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd 
and tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, 
when that flow 
Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite ; 
A maiden pure; as when she went 
along 
From Mizpeh's towcr'd gate with M'el- 
come light, 
"With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads 
the count of crimes 
With that wild oath." She render'd 
answer high : 
" Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand 
times 
I would be born and die. 

" Single I grew, like some green plant, 
whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes 
beneath 
Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower 
to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

" My God, m\- land, my father — these 
did move 
Me from.my bliss of life, that Xature 
gave, 
Lower'd softly with a threefold cord 
of love 
Down to a silent grave. 

" And I went mourning, ' No fair 
Hebrew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame 
among 
The Hebrew mothers ' — emptied of 
all joy, 
Leaving the dance and song, 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 
Leaving the promise of nij'' bridal 
bov.'cr, 



The valleys of grape-loaded vines that 
glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 

" The light white cloud swam over us. 
Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his 
den ; 
We saw the large white stars rise one 
by one, 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 

" Saw God divide the night with flying 
flame. 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 
I heard Him, for He spake, and grief 
became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

" When the next moon was roU'd into 
the sky, 
Strength came to me that equall'd 
my desire. 
How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire ! 

" It comforts me in this one thought 
to dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's 
will ; 
Because the kiss he gave me, ere I 
fell, 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

" Moreover it is written that my race 
Hew'd Amnion, hip and thigh, from 
Aroer 
On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her 
face 
Glow'd as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips : she left me where 
I stood : 
"Glory to God," she sang, and past 
afar, 
Thridding the sombre boskage of the 
wood. 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively. 
As one that from a casement leans 
his head, 
AVhen midnight bells cease ringing 
suddenly, 
And the old year is dead. 

"Alas! alas!" a low voice, full of 
care, 
jMurmur'd beside me . " Turn and 
look on me : 
I am that Rosamond, whom men call 
fair, 
If what I was I be. 

" Would I had been some maiden 
coarse and jjoor ! 
me, that I should ever see the 
light ! 



.•; DREAM OF FAIR WOMEX. 



61 



Tliose dragon eyes of nnger'd 
Eleanor 
Do hunt me, day and night." 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope 
and trust : 
To whom the Egyptian : " 0, you 
tamely died ! 



You should have clung to Fulvia's 
waist, and thrust 
The dagger thro' her side.'" 

"With that sharp sound the white 
dawn's creeping beams, 
Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the 
mystery 




" Joan of Arc, 
A lifjht of Ancient France." 



Of folded sleep. The captain of my 
dreams 
Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of 
ttie dark. 
Ere I saw her, who clas])'d in her 
last trance 



Her murder'd father's head, or Joan 
of Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

Or her who knew that Love can van- 
quish l^eath, 
'V\^ho kneeling, Avith one arm about 
lier king, 



# 



62 



THE BLACKBIRD. 



Drew forth the poison witli her balmy 
breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labors longer from the 
deep 
Gold-mines of thought to lift the 
hidden ore 
That glimpses, moving up, than I from 
sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. "With 
what dull iiain 
Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to 
strike 
Into that wondrous track of dreams 
again ! 
But no two dreams are like. 

As when a soul laments, which hath 
been blest. 
Desiring what is mingled with past 
years, 
In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By signs or groans or tears ; 

Because all words, tho' cuU'd with 
choicest art, 
Failing to give the bitter of the 
sweet. 
Wither beneath the palate, and the 
heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

O BLACKiuRD ! sing me something 
well ; 
While all the neighbors shoot thee 

round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful 
ground, 
Where thou may'st warble, eat and 
dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 
Are thine ; the range of lawn and 

park : 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen 
dark, 
All thine, against the garden wall 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still. 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue, 
Cold February loved, is dry : 
Plenty corrupts the melody 

That made thee famous once,- when 
young : 



And in the sultry garden-squares, 
Now thy flute notes are changed to 

coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As wlien a liawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning ! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are 
new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD 
YEAR. 

Fui.L knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily 
sighing : 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low. 
For the old year lies a-dying. 

Old year, you must not die ; 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true true- 
love, 

And the New-year will take 'em away. 
Old year, j'ou must not go ; 
So long as you have been with us 
Such joy as you have seen with us, 
Old year, you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; 

A jollier year we shall not see. 

But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. 

And tho' his foes speak ill of liim. 

He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 
We did so laugh and cry with you, 
I've half a mind to die with you. 
Old year, if you must die. 

He ^Yas full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er.^ 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste. 
But he'll be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my 
friend, 

And the New-year blithe and bold, 
my friend, 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps : the light burns 
low : 



TO J. S. 



63 



'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you : 
What is it we can do for you 1 
Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There's a new foot on the floor, 
my friend. 

And a new face at the door, my 
friend, 

A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 
The wind, that beats the mountain, 
blows 
More softly round the open wold. 
And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made, 
Or else I had not dared to flow 

In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

'Tis strange that thqse we lean on 
most, * 

Those in whose laps our limbs 
are nursed. 
Fall into shadow, soonest lost : 

Those we love first are taken first. 

God gives us love. Something to love 
He lends us; but, when love is 
grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

This is the curse of time. Alas ! 

In grief I am not all unlcarn'd ; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did 
l>ass ; 
One went, who never hath re- 
turn'd. 

He will not smile — not speak to me 
( )nce more. Two years his chair 
is seen 
Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not 
been. 

Your loss is rarer ; for this star 

Rose with you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother : his mute dust 
I honor and his living worth : 

A man more pure and bold and just 
Was never born into the earth. 



I have not look'd upon you nigh. 

Since that dear soul hath fall'n 
asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, 
Drawn from the spirit thro' the 
brain, 
I will not even preach to you, 

" Weep, weeping dulls the inward 
pain." 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She lovetli her own anguish deep 
More than nmcli pleasure. Let her 
will , 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say, " God's ordinance 

Of Death is blown in every wind" ; 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun, 

And dwells in heaven half the 
night. 

Vain solace ! Memory standing near 
Cast down her eyes, and in her 
throat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth, 
How should I soothe you anyway. 

Who miss the brother of your youth ? 
Yet something I did wish to say . 

For he too was a friend to me : 

Both are my friends, and my true 
breast 

Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be 
That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would 
make 
Grief more. 'Twere better I 
should cease 
Although myself could almost take 
Tho place of him that sleeps in 
peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : 
Sleep, holy sjiirit, blessed soul, 

While the stars burn, the moons in- 
crease. 
And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 
Nothing comes to thee new or 
strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 
Lie still, dry dust, secure of 
cliange. 



64 



ON A MOURNER. 



ON A MDUKNEIJ, 
I. 
Nature, so far as in her lies, 

Imitates God, and turns her face 
To every land beneath the skies, 
Counts nothing that she meets with 

base, 
But lives and loves in every place ; 



Fills out the homely quickset-screens. 
And makes the purple lilac rii)e, 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 
The swamp, where hums the drop- 
ping snipe, 
\yith moss and braided marish-pipe ; 



And on thy heart a finger lays. 

Saying, " Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and 

lime 
Put forth and feel a gladder clime." 



And murmurs of a deeper voice. 
Going before to some far shrine, 

Teach that sick heart tlie stronger 
choice, 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide Will that closes thine. 



And when the zoning eve has died 
Where yon dark valleys wind for- 
lorn, 
Come Hope and Memory, spouse and 
bride, 
From out the borders of the morn, 
AVith that fair child betwixt them 
born. 

VI. 

And when no mortal motion jars 
The blackness roimd tlie tombing 
sod. 
Thro' silence and the trembling stars 
Comes Faith from tracts no feet 

have trod. 
And Virtue, like a household god 



Promising empire ; such as those 
Once heard at dead of night to greet 

Troy's wandering prince, so that he 
rose 
With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 



You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas. 



It is the land that freemen till. 

That sober-suited Freedom chose, 
The land, where girt with friend.* 
or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown, 
Where Freedom slowly broadens 
down 

From precedent to precedent : 

Where faction seldom gathers head. 
But by degrees to fulness wrought. 
The strength of some diffusive 
thought 
Hath time and space to work and 
spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil 
crime, 

And individual freedom mute ; 

Tho' Power should make from land 
to land 
Thename of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 
Should fill and choke with golden 
sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth. 
Wild wind ! I ?eek a warmer sky, 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



Of old sat Freedom on the heights^ 
The thunders breaking at herf eet: 

Above her shook the starry lights ; 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and 
field 

To mingle with the human race. 
And part by part to men reveal'd 

The fulness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works, 

From her isle-altar gazing down : 

Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, 
And, King-like, wears the crown ; 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 



LOVE THOU THY LAND. 



65 



That her fair form may stand and 
shine, 
Make bright our days and light 
our dreams, 
Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 



Love thou thy land, with love far- 
brought 
From out the storied Past, and 

used 
Within the Present, but transfused 
Thro' future time by power of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles. 
Love, that endures not sordid ends, 
For English natures, freemen, 
friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time, 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble 
wings 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for 
day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the 
winds ; 
But let her herald. Reverence, fly 
Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of 
minds. 



Watch what main-currents draw the 
years : 
Cut Prejudice against the grain : 
But gentle words are always gain : 

Regard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 
Of pension, neither count on praise : 
It grows to guerdon after-days : 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch : 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 

Nor master'd by some modern term ; 

Not swift nor slow to change, but 
firm : 
And m its season bring the law ; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 
With Life, that, working strongly, 

binds — 
Set in all lights by many minds. 

To close the interest of all. 



For Nature also, cold and warm, 
And moist and dry, devising long, 
Thro' many agents making strong. 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees. 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be 
free 
To ingroove itself with that which 

flies. 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 
Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shape in act ; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-jieals. 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule. 

New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air are 
dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd. 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires. 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made. 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

Oh yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth. 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud, 
Must ever shock, like armed foes. 
And this be true, till Time shall 
close, 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and 

guilt, 
But with his hand against the hilt. 
Would pace the troubled land, like 
Peace ; 



66 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 17S: 



Not less, tlio' dogs of Faction bay, 
Would serve his kind in deed and 

word, 
Certain, if knowledge bring the 
sword, 
That knowledge takes the sword 
away — 

Would love the gleams of good that 
broke 
From either side, nor veil liis eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should 
rise 
Would strike, and firmh-, and one 
stroke : 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day. 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty montlis, nor 
wed 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA 
IN 1782. 
THOU, that sendest out the man 

To rule by land and sea. 
Strong mother of a Lion-line, 
Be proud of those strong sons of thine 
Who wrench'd their rights from 
thee ! 

What wonder, if in noble heat 

Those men thine arms withstood, 

Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught. 

And in thy spirit witli thee fought — 

Who sprang from English blood ! 

But Thou rejoice M'ith liberal joy, 

Lift ui) thy rocky face. 
And shatter, when the storms are 

black, 
In many a streaming torrent back. 

The seas that shock thy base ! 

AYhatever harmonies of law 

The growing world assume. 
Thy work is thine — The single note 
From that deep chord which Hampden 
smote 
Will vibrate to the doom. 



THE GOOSE. 
I KN'EAV an old wife lean and poor, 

Her rags scarce hold together ; 
There strode a stranger to the door, 

And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm. 
He utter'd rhyme and reason, 

" Here, take the goose, and keep you 
warm, 
It is a stormy season." 



She caught the wliite goose by the leg, 
A goose — 'twas no great matter. 

The goose let fall a golden egg 
With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the 
pelf. 

And ran to tell her neighbors ; 
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, 

And rested from her labors. 

And feeding high, and living soft. 
Grew plump and able-bodied ; 

Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, 
The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid. 
She felt her heart grow prouder : 

But ah ! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It cluttcr'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

" A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! " 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

" Go, take the goose, and wring her 
throat, 
I will not bear it longer." 

Then j'elp'd the cur, and yawl'd the 
cat ; 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 
The goose flew this way and flew that, 

And fiU'd the house with clamor. 

As head and heels upon the floor 
They flounder'd all together, 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather : 

He took the goose upon his arm. 
He utter'd words of scorning ; 

" So keep you cold, or keep you warm. 
It is a stormy morning." 

The wild wind rang from park and 
plain, 

And round the attics rumbled, 
Till all the tables danced again, , 

And half the chimncj's tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out. 
The blast was hard and harder. 

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up. 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder : 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger. 

Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose, 
And God forget the stranger ! " 



EJSTGLISH IDYLS AI^D OTHEE POEMS. 



THE EPIC. 

At Francis Allen's on tlie Christmas- 
eve, — 
The game of forfeits done — the girls 

all kiss'd 
Beneath the sacred bush and past 

away — 
The pai'son Holmes, the poet Everard 

Hall, 
The host, and I sat round the wassail- 
bowl, 
Then half-way ebb'd : and there we 

held a talk, 
How all the old honor had from 

Christmas gone. 
Or gone, or dwindled down to some 

odd games 
In some odd nooks like this ; till I, 

tired out 
With cutting eights that day upon the 

pond. 
Where, three times slipping from the 

outer edge, 
I bump'd the ice into three several 

stars. 
Fell in a doze ; and half awake I 

heard 
The parson taking wide and wider 

sweeps. 
Now harping on the church-commis- 
sioners. 
Now hawking at Geology and schism ; 
Until I woke, and found him settled 

down 
Upon the general decay of faith 
Right thro' the world, " at home was 

little left. 
And none abroad : there was no 

anchor, none, 
To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt 

his hand 
On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold 

by him." 
"And I," quoth Everard, "by the 

wassail-bowl." 
" Why yes," I said, " we knew your 

gift that way 
At college : but another which you 

had, 



I mean of verse (for so we held it 

then), 
What came of that ? " " You know," 

■ said Frank, " he burnt 
His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve 

books " — 
And then to me demanding why? 

" Oh, sir, 
He thought that nothing new was said, 

or else 
Something so said 'twas nothing — 

that a truth 
Looks freshest in the fashion of the 

day: 
God knows : he has a mint of reasons : 

ask. 
It pleased me well enough." " Nay, 

nay," said Hall, 
" Why take the style of those heroic 

times ? 
For nature brings not back tlie Mas- 
todon, 
Nor we those times ; and why should 

any man ' 

Remodel models ? these twelve books 

of mine 
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- 
worth. 
Mere chaff and draff, much better 

burnt." " But I," 
Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh 

from this hearth 
And have it : keep a thing, its use 

will come. 
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 
He laugh'd, and I, tho' sleepy, like a 

horse 
That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd 

my ears ; 
For I remember'd Everard's college 

fame 
When we were Freshmen : then at my 

request 
He brought it; and the poet little 

urged. 
But with some prelude of disparage- 
ment, 
Read, mouthing out his hollow oes 

and aes, 
Deep-chested music, and to this result. 



68 



MORTE n ARTHUR. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So all clay long the noise of battle 

roU'd 
Among the mountains by the winter 

sea; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by 

man, 
Had fallen in Lyonness about their 

Lord, 
King Arthur : then, because his wound 

was deep. 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his 

knights. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the 

field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren 

land. 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on 

one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was 

full. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous 

knights 
"Whereof this world holds record. 

Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I 

think that we 
Shall nevermore, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and tlie 

halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I 

made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more — but let what will 

be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till 

morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Ex- 

calibur. 
Which was my pride: for thou re- 

memberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, 

an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the 

lake. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd 

across 
And took it, and have worn it like a 

king: 
And, wheresoever I am sung or 

told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 



And fling him far into the middle 

mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly 

bring me word." 
To him replied the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere: 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave 

thee thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 

helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded 

man. 
Yet I tliy best Mill all perform at 

full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring 

thee word." 
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine 

he stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of 

tombs. 
Where lay tiie mighty bones of an- 
cient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea- 
wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 

stepping down 
By zig-zag iiaths, and juts of pointed 

rock. 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 
There drew he forth the brand 

Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 

moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 

ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against 

the hilt : 
For all the haft twinkled with dia- 
mond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- 
work 
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as 

he stood. 
This way and that dividing, the swift 

mind. 
In act to throw: but at the last it 

seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many -knotted water-flags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the 

marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded 

King. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission 

which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen ? or what 

hast heard ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir 

Bedivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the 

reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the 

crag." 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 



69 



To whom replied King Arthur, faint 

and pale : 
" Thou hast bctray'd thy nature and 

thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as be- 
seem 'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow'd, either 

hand. 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to 

lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go 

again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the 

thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring 

me woM." 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second 

time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside 

the mere. 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the 

hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, 

he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud, 
"And if indeed I cast the brand 

away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy 

note, 
Should thus be lost for ever from the 

earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes 

of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this 

were done? 
Wliat harm, undone ? deep harm to 

disobey. 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey them, if a king 

demand 
An act improfitable, against himself ? 
The King is sick, and knows not what 

he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty 

breath 
And rumors of a doubt? but were 

this kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of 

mighty kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of 

arms. 
Saying, ' liing Arthur's sword, Excali- 

bur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the 

Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in 

the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 
To all tlie people, winning reverence. 



But now much honor and much fame 

were lost." 
So spake he, clouded with his own 

conceit. 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the 

wounded King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 

heavily : 
" What is it thou hast seen ? or what 

hast heard ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir 

Bedivere : 
"I heard the water lapping on the 

crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the 

reeds." 
To whom replied King Arthur, 

much in wrath : 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is 

me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his 

eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what 

thou art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my 

knights. 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the 

precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the 

eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 
And the third time may prosper, get 

thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my 

hands." 
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and 

ran. 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd 

the sword, 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. 

The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of 

the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and 

whirl'd in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern 

morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of win- 
ter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern 

sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an 

arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and 

brandish'd him 



70 



MORTE n ARTHUR. 



Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the 

King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath: 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 



Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, 

or seen ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir 

Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 

the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never 

saw, 




"But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands." 



Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I 

die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal 

men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both liands I flung him, 

wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 



Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 

That caught him by the hilt, and 
brandish'd him 

Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere." 
' And answer made King Arthur, 
breathinu hard: 



MORTE n ARTHUR. 



71 



" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I 

were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive 

my weight, 
And bear me to the margin; yet I 

fear 
Mj- wound hath taken cold, and I 

shall die." 
So saj'ing, from the pavement he 

half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his 

arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue 

eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
EemorsefuUy regarded thro' his 

tears, 
And Avould have spoken, but he found 

not words. 
Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee. 
O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- 
guid liands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place 

of tombs. 
But, as he walk'd. King Arthur 

panted hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on 

his bed 
When all the house is mute. So 

sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

" Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from 

ridge to ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, 

as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

cry 
Before. His own thought drove him, 

like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy 

caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left 

and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round 

him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter 

moon. 
Then saw they how there hove a 

dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to 

stern, 
Beneath them ; and descending they 

were ware 
That all the decks were dense with 

stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a 

dream — by these 



Three Queens with crowns of gold — 

and from them rose 
•A cry that shiver'd to the tingling 

stars, 
And, as it were one voice an agonj- 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that 

shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no 

cine conies, 
Or hath come, since the making of 

the world. 
Then niurmur'd Arthur, " Place me 

in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There 

those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the 

King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them 

all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her 

lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, com- 
plaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his 

brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his 

face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd 

moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the 

springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 

with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 

curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising 

sun 
High from the dais-throne — were 

parch'd with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and lianging. 

loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the 

King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance 

in rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tourna- 
ment. 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 

charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere, 
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, Mhither shall 

I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and 

my eyes'? 
For now I see the true old times are 

dead. 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance. 
And every cliance brought out a noble 

kniffht. 



72 



MORTE n ARTHUR. 



Such times have been not since the 

light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.* 
But now the whole kocnd table is 

dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty 

world ; 
And I, the last^ go forth companion- 
less, 
And the days darken round me, and 

the 3'ears, 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds." 
And slowly answered Arthur from 

the barge : 
"The old order changeth, yielding 

place to new. 
And God fulfils Himself in many 

ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt 

the world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in 

me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I 

have done 
May He within Himself make pure ! 

but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face 

again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Where- 
fore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and 

day. 
For what are men better than sheep 

or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the 

brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands 

of prayer 
.Both for themselves and those who 

call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every 

way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet 

of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long 

way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I 

go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a 

doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any 

snow. 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it 

lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happ3% fair with 

orchard-lawns 
And bower\r hollows crown'd with 

sunnner sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous 

wound." 
So said he, and the barge with oar 

and sail 



Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her 

death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 

the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the 

hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge 

of dawn. 
And on the mere the wailing died 

away. 

Here ended Hall, and our last light, 

that long / 

Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, 

flared and fell : 
At which the Parson, sent to sleep 

with sound. 
And waked Avith silence, grunted 

" Good ! " but we 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which 

he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here 

and there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of noth- 
ingness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized 

his work ; 
I know not: but we sitting, as I said. 
The cock crew loud ; as at that time 

of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for 

dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man 

ill-used, 
" There now — that's nothing ! " drew 

a little back. 
And drove his heel into the smoul- 

der'd log. 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the 

flue: 
And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I 

seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming 

shores. 
Point after point; till on to dawn, 

when dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of 

Jay, 
To me, methought, who waited with a 

crowd. 
There came a bark that, blowing for- 
ward, bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentle- 
man 
Of stateliest port ; and all the people 

cried, 
"Arthur is come again: he cannot 

die." 
Then those that stood upon the hills 

behind 
Repeated — "Come agahi, and thrice 

as fair ; " 



THE GARDENERS DAUGHTER. 



73 



And, further inland, voices echoed — 

. " Come 
With all good things, and war shall 

be no more." 
At this a himdred bells began to 

peal. 
That with the sound I woke, and heard 

. indeed 
The clear church-bells ring in the 

Christmas-morn. 



THE GARDEXER'S 
DAUGHTER ; 

OR, THE PICTURES. 

This morning is the morning of the 

When I and Eustace from the city 

went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter; I 

and he, 
Brothers in Art ; a friendship so com- 
plete 
Portion'd in halves between us, that 

we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 
My Eustace might have sat for 

Hercules ; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of 

breast. 
He. by some law that holds in love, 

and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little; — 

Juliet, she 
So light of foot, so light of • spirit — 

oh, she 
To me mj'self, for some three careless 

moons. 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Know 

you not 
Such touches are but embassies of 

love. 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he 

found 
Empire for life ? but Eustace painted 

her. 
And said to me, she sitting with us 

then, 
" When will you paint like this ? " and 

I replied, 
( My words were half in earnest, half 

in jest,) 
" 'Tis not your work, but Love's. 

Love, unperceived, 
A more ideal Artist he than all, 
Came, drew your jjencil from you, 

made those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that 

hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front 

of March." 



And Juliet answer'd laughing, " Go 

and see 
The Gardener's daughter: trust me, 

after that. 
You scarce can fail to match his mas- 
terpiece." 
And up we rose, and on the spur we 

went. 
Not wholly in the busy world, nor 

quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I 

love. 
News from the humming city comes 

to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage 

bells ; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, 

you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster 

clock ; 
Although between it and the garden 

lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow 

broad stream. 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the 

oar. 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on. 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a 

bridge 
Crown'd with the minster-towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep- 

udder'd kine. 
And all about the large lime feathers 

low. 
The lime a summer home of murmur- 
ous wings. 
In that still place she, hoarded in 

herself. 
Grew, seldom seen ; not less among us 

lived 
Her fame from liji to lip. Who had 

not heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter ? 

Where was he. 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart. 
At such a distance from his youth in 

grief. 
That, having seen, forgot? The com- 
mon mouth. 
So gross to express delight, in praise 

of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress of the 

world. 
And if I said that Fancy, led by 

Love, 
Would play with flying forms and 

images. 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her 

name 
My heart was like a prophet to my 

heart. 
And told me I should love. A crowd 

of hopes, 



74 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



Tliat sought to sow themselves like 

winged seeds, 
Born out of everything I heard and 

saw, 
Flutter'd about my senses and my 

soul; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of 

balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the 

air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of 

thought, 
That verged upon them, sweeter than 

the dream 
Dream'd by a happy man, when the 

dark East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal 

morn. 
And sure this orbit of the memory 

folds 
For ever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery 

squares, 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing 

wind, 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one 

large cloud 
Drew downward : but all else of 

heaven was pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge 

to verge. 
And May with me from head to heel. 

And now. 
As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it 

were 
The hour just flown, that morn with 

all its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the 

life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot 

to graze, 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the 

pathwaj', stood. 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor 

field. 
And lowing to his fellows. From the 

woods 
Came voices of the well-contented 

doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes 

for joy, 
But shook his song together as he 

near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left 

and right, 
The cuckoo told his name to all the 

hills ; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 
The redcap whistled ; and the night- 
ingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of 

day. 
And Eustace turn'd, and smiling 

said to me, . 
" Hear how the bushes echo ! bv my 

life, 



These birds have joyful thoughts. 

1 hink you they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song? 
Or have they any sense of why thej- 

sing ? 
And would the}* praise the heavens 

for what they have ? " 
And I made answer, " Were there 

nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens but 

only love. 
That only love were cause enough for 

praise." 
Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read 

my tliought, 
And on we went; but ere an hour had 

pass'd, 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the 

North ; 
Down which a well-worn pathway 

courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet liedge ; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy 

walk 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly 

pruned ; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with per- 
fume, blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In 

the midst 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers 

of shade. 
The garden-glasses shone, and mo- 
mently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver 

lights. 
"Eustace," I said, "this wonder 

keeps the house." 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, " Look ! look ! " Before he 

ceased I turn'd, 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her 

there. 
For up the porch there grew an 

Eastern rose. 
That, flowering high, the last night's 

gale had caught. 
And blown across the walk. One arm 

aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to 

the shape — 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she 

stood, 
A single stream of all her soft brown 

hair 
Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the 

flowers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wav- 
ering 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her 

waist — 
Ah, happy shade — and still went 

wavering down, 
But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might 

have danced 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



75 



The greensward into greener circles, 
dipt, 

And ruix'd with shadows of the com- 
mon jrround ! 

But the full (lay dwelt on her brows, 
and yunn'd 



Her violet eyes, an<l all her Hebe 

bloom, 
And doubled his own warmth against 

her lips, 
And on the bounteous Avave of such a 

breast 




" One rose, hut one, bij those fair fingers culi'd. 
Were vorth a hundred kisses jjress'd on lijts." 



As never pencil drew. Half light, 

half shade, 
She stood, a sight to make an old 

man young. 
So rapt, we near'd the house ; but 

she, a Rose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant 

toil, 



Nor heard us come, nor from her tend- 
ance turn'd 

Into the world without; till close at 
hand. 

And almost ere I knew mine own in- 
tent, 

This murmur broke the stillness of 
that air 



76 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



Which brooded round about her : 

" All, one rose, 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers 

cuU'd, 
^Yere worth a hundred kisses press'd 

on lips 
Less exquisite than thine." 

She look'd ; but all 
Suffused with blushes — neither self- 

possess'd 
Xor startled, but betwixt this mood 

and that. 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused. 
And dropt the branch she held, and 

turning, wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd 

her lips 
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer 

came, 
Xor yet refused the rose, T)ut granted it. 
And moved awav, and left me, statue- 
like. 
In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day, 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd 

there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's 

white star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in 

the dusk. 
So home we went, and all the live- 
long way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter 

me. 
" Now," said he, " will you climb the 

top of Art. 
You cannot fail but work in hues to 

dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet? you, not you, — the Mas- 
ter, Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all." 
So home I went, but could not sleep 

for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the 

gloom, 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and 

o'er. 
And shaping faithful record of the 

glance 
That graced the giving — such a noise 

of life 
Swarm'd in the golden present, such 

a voice 
Call'd to ine from the years to come, 

and such 
A length of bright horizon rinim'd the 

dark. 
And all that night I heard the watch- 
man peal 
The sliding season : all that night I 

heard 
The heavy clocks knoUing the drowsy 

hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all 

good. 



O'er the mute city stole with folded 

wings. 
Distilling odors on me as the}' went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 
Love at first sight, first-born, and 

heir to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward 

squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where 

she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me ; sometimes a 

Dutch love 
For tulips ; then for roses, moss or 

musk. 
To grace my city rooms ; or fruits and 

cream 
Served in the weeping elm ; and more 

and more 
A word could bring the color to my 

cheek ; 
A thought would fill my eyes with 

happy dew ; 
Love trebled life within mo, and with 

each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the year, 
One after one, thro' that still garden 

pass'd ; 
Each garlanded with her peculiar 

flower 
Danced into light, and died into the 

shade ; 
And each in passing touch'd with some 

new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day 

by day, 
Like one that never can be wholly 

known, 
Her beauty grew ; till Autunm brought 

an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep 

" I will," 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, 

to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds : but 

I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her 

dark eyes 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I 

reach'd * 

The wicket-gate, and found her stand- 
ing there. 
There sat we down ujion a garden 

mound, 
Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the 

third. 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both ; and over many a 

range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral 

towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows : from 

them clash'd 
The bells ; we listen'd ; with the time 

we play'd. 



DORA. 



11 



We spoke of other things ; we coursed 

about 
The subject most at heart, more near 

and near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling 

round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 
Then, in that time and place, I spoke 

to her. 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine 

own, 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to 

hear. 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I 

loved ; 
And in that time and place she an- 

swer'd me. 
And in the compass of three little 

words, 
More musical than ever came in one. 
The silver fragments of a broken 

voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering, " I am 

thine." 
Shall I cease liere ? Is this enough 

to say 
That my desire, like all strongest 

hopes. 
By its own energy fulfill'd itself. 
Merged in completion ? Would you 

learn at full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial 

grades 
Beyond all grades develop'd ? and in- 
deed 
I had not staid so long to tell you all. 
But while I mused came Memory with 

sad eyes, 
Holding the folded annals of my 

youth ; 
And while I mused, Love with knit 

brows went by, 
And with a flying finger swept mj^ lips, 
And spake, " Be wise : not easily for- 
given 
Are those, who setting wide the doors 

that bar 
The secret bridal chambers of the 

heart. 
Let in the day." Here, then, my words 

have end. 
Yet might I tell of meetings, of fare- 
wells — 
Of that which came between, more 

sweet than each. 
In whispers, like the whispers of the 

leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — 

in sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for ut- 
terance, 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might 

I not tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges 

given. 



And vows, where there was never need 
of AOWS, 

And kissbs, whei-e the heart on one 
wild leap 

Himg tranced from all pulsation, as 
above 

The heavens between their fairy fleeces 
pa le 

Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleet- 
ing stars ; 

Or while the balmy glooming, crescent- 
lit. 

Spread the light haze along the river- 
shores. 

And in the hollows ; or as once we met 

rnheedful, tho' beneath a whispering 
rain 

Xight slid down one long stream of 
sighing wind. 

And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. 
But this whole hour your eyes have 
been intent 

On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for 
what it holds 

May not be dwelt on by the common 
day. 

This prelude has prepared thee. Raise 
thy soul ; 

Make thine heart ready with thine 
eyes : the time 

Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there. 

As I beheld her ere she knew my lieart, 

My first, last love ; the idol of my 
youth. 

The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! 

Now the most blessed memory of mine 



DORA. 



With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his 

son. 
And she his niece. He often look'd 

at them, 
And often thought, " I'll make them 

man and wife." 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. 
And yearn'd towards William ; but the 

youth, because 
He l^pd been always with her in the 

house. 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and s.aid, 

" My son : 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I 

die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is 

well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is mv brother's daughter : he and I 



DOHA. 



Had once hard words, and parted, and 

he died 
In foreign hinds ; but for his sake I 

bred 
His daughter Dora : take her for your 

wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, niglit 

and day. 
For many years." But William an- 

swer'd sliort ; 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old 

man 
Was wroth, anil doubled up his hands, 

and said : 
"You will not, boy! you dare to an- 
swer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was 

law. 
And so it shall be now for me. Look 

to it ; 
Consider, William : take a month to 

tiiink. 
And let me liave an answer to my 

wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you 

sliall pack. 
And never more darken my doors 

again." 
But William answer'd madly ; bit his 

lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd 

at her 
The less he liked her ; and his ways 

were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then 

before 
The month was out he left his father's 

liouse. 
And hired himself to work within the 

fields ; 
And half in love, lialf spite, he woo'd 

and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
Then, when the bells were I'inging, 

Allan call'd 
His niece and said : " My girl, I love 

you well ; 
But if you si)eak with him that was 

my son, 
(.)r change a word with her he calls his 

wife. 
My home is none of yours. ]\^ will 

is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She 

thought, 
" It cannot be : my uncle's mind will 

change ! " 
And days went on, and there was 

born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on 

him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's 

gate. 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd 

him not. 



But Dora stored what little she could 

save, 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did 

they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On AVilliam, and in harvest time he 

died. 
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, 

and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and 

said : 
" I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' 

me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's 

gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he 

chose, 
And for tliis orphan, I am come to 

you : 
You know there has not been for these 

five years 
So full a harvest: let me take the 

boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that Mhen his heart 

is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the 

boy. 
And bless him for the sake of him 

that's gone." 
And Dora took the child, and went 

her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a 

mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies 

grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his 

men 
Dare tell liim Dora waited with the 

child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone 

to him, 
But her heart fail'd her ; and the reap- 
ers rcap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
But when the morrow came, she rose 

and took 
The child once more, and sat upon tlie 

mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the 

flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his 

hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's 

eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the 

field 
He spied her, and he left his men at 

work. 
And came and said : " Where were you 

yesterday ? 



DORA. 



79 



Whose child is tliat ? What are you 

doing here ■? " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answer'd softly, "This is Wil- 
liam's child ! " 
" And did I not," said Allan, " did I 

not 
Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again : 
" Do with me as you will, but take the 

child. 
And bless him for the sake of him 

that's gone ! " 
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman 

there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet 

you dared 
To slight it. Well — for I will take 

the boy ; 
But go you hence, and never see me 

more." 
So saying, he took the boy that cried 

aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of 

flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her 

hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the 

field. 
More and more distant. She bow'd 

down her head. 
Remembering the day when first she 

came. 
And all the things that had been. She 

bow'd down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers 

reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
Then Dora went to Mary's house, 

and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the 

boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out 

in praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widow- 
hood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the 

boy; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with 

you: 
He says that he will never see me 

more." 
Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never 

be, 
That tlipu shouldst take my trouble 

on thyself : 
And, now I think, he shall not have 

the boy. 
For he will teach him hardness, and 

to slight 
His mother; therefore thou and I will 

go. 
And I will have my boy, and bring 

him home ; 



And I will beg of him to take Ihee 

back : 
But if he will not take thee back 

again, 
Then thou and I will live within one 

house. 
And work for William's child, until 

he grows 
Of age to lieliD us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd 

the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they 

peep'd, and saw 
The boy set xrp betwixt his grandsire's 

knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his 

arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on 

tlie cheeks. 
Like one that loved him : and the lad 

stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that 

hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by 

the fire. . 
Then they came in : but when the boy 

beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
And Allan set him down, and Mary 

said : 
"O Father! — if you let me call 

you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or William, or this child ; but now I 

come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves 

you well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at 

peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he 

said. 
He could not ever rue his marrying 

me — 

1 had been a patient wife : but. Sir, 

he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father 

thus : 
' God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may 

he never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' 

Then he turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I 

am! 
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for 

you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn 

to slight 
His father's memory ; and take Dora 

back. 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the 

room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in 

sobs : — 



so 



AUDLEY COURT. 



" I have been to blame — to blame. 
1 have killed my son. 

I have kill'd him — but I loved him 
— my dear son. 

May God forgive me ! — I have been 
to_^blame. 

lOss me, my children." 

Then they clung about 

The old man's neck, and kiss'd him 
many times. 

And all the man was broken with re- 
morse ; 

And all his love came back a hundred- 
fold; 

And for three hours he sobb'd o'er 
William's child 

Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 

Within one house together; and as 
years 

Went forward, Mary took another 
mate ; 

But Dora lived unmarried till her 
death. 



AUDLEY COURT. 

"The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, 
and not a room 

For love or money. Let us picnic 
there 

At Audle}^ Court." 

I spoke, while Audley feast 

Humm'd like a hive all round the 
narrow quay. 

To Francis, with a basket on his arm, 

To Francis just alighted from the boat, 

And breathing of the sea. " With all 
my heart," 

Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd 
thro' the swarm. 

And rounded by the stillness of the 
beach 

To where the bay runs up its latest 
horn. 
We left the dying ebb that faintly 
lipp'd 

The flat red granite; so by many a 
sweep 

Of meadow smooth from aftermath 
we reach'd 

The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd 
thro' all 

The pillar'd dusk of sounding syca- 
mores, 

And cross'd the garden to the gar- 
dener's lodge, 

With all its casements bedded, and its 
walls 

And chimneys muffled in the leafy 
vine. 
There, on a slope of orchard, Fran- 
cis laid 

A damask napkin wrought with horse 
and hound, 



Brouglit out a dusky loaf that smelt 

of home. 
And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly- 
made, 
Where quail and pigeon, lark and lev- 
eret lay, 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden 

yolks 
Imbedded and injellied ; last, with 

these, 
A flask of cider from his father's 

A'ats, 
Prime, Avhich I knew ; and so we sat 

and eat 
And talk'd old matters over ; who was 

dead, 
Who married, who was like to be, and 

how 
The races went, and who would rent 

the hall : 
Then touch'd upon the game, how 

scarce it was 
This season ; glancing thence, dis- 

cuss'd the farm. 
The four-field system, and the price of 

grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where 

we split. 
And came again together on the king 
With heated faces ; till he laugh'd 

aloud ; 
And, while the blackbird on the pippin 

hung 
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine 

and sang — 
" Oh ! who would fight and march 

and countermarch. 
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, 
And shovell'd up into some bloody 

trench 
Where no one knows ■? but let me live 

my life. 
"Oh! who would cast and balance 

at a desk, 
Perch'd like a crow il^on a three- 

legg'd stool, 
Till all his juice is dried, and all his 

joints 
Are full of chalk ? but let me live my 

life. 
" Who'd serve the state 1 for if I 

carved my name 
Upon the cliffs that guard my native 

land, ^ 
I might as well have traced it in the 

sands ; 
The sea wastes all : but.let mg live my 

life. 
" Oh ! who would love ? I woo'd a 

woman once. 
But she was sharper than an eastern 

wind, 
And all my heart turn'd from her, as 

a thorn 
Turns from the sea ; but let me live 

my life." 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 



81 



He sang his song, and I replied with 

mine : 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Ivnock'd down to me, when old Sir 

Robert's pride. 
His books — the more the pity, so I 

said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — 

and this — 
I set the w^ords, and added names I 

knew. 
" Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and 

dream of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm. 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is 

mine. 
" Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's 

arm ; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, 
For thou art fairer than all else that is. 
" Sleep, breathing health and jieace 

upon her breast : 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against 

her lip : 
I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn. 
" I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the 

dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream 

of me." 
So sang we each to either, Francis 

Hale, 
The farmer's son, who lived across the 

bay. 
My friend ; and I, that having Avhere- 

withal, 
And in the fallow leisure of my life 
A rolling stone of here and every- 
where, 
Did what I would ; but ere the night 

we rose 
And saunter'd home beneath a moon, 

that, just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the 

leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reach 'd 
The limit of the hills ; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming 

quay. 
The town was hush'd beneath us : 

lower down 
The bay was oily calm ; the harbor 

buoy. 
Sole star of phosphorescence in the 

calm, 
With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at 

heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh 
the meadows look 
Above the river, and, but a month 
ago, 



The whole hill-side was redder than a 

fox. 
Is yon plantation where this byway 

joins 
The turnpike? 

James. Yes. 

John. And when does this come 

by? 
James. The mail? At one o'clock. 
John. What is it now 1 

James. A quarter to. 
John. Whose house is that I see ? 
No, not the County Member's with 

the vane : 
Up higher with the yew-tree by it, 

and half 
A score of gables. 

James. That? Sir Edward Head's : 
But he's abroad : the place is to be 

sold. 
John. Oh, his. He was not broken. 
James. No, sir, he, 

Vex'd with a morbid devil in his 

blood 
That veil'd the world with jaundice, 

liid his face 
From all men, and commercing with 

himself. 
He lost the sense that handles dailv 

life — 
That keeps us all in order more or 

less — 
And sick of home went overseas for 

change. 
John. And whither 1 
James. Nay, who knows ' he's here 

and there. 
But let him go; his devil goes with 

him, 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky 

Dawes. 
John. What's that 1 
James. You saw the man — on Mon- 
day, was it ? — 
There by the humpback'd willow; 

half stands up 
And bristles ; half lias fall'n and* 

made a bridge ; 
And there he caught the younker 

tickling trout — 
Caught 171 flagrante — what's the Latin 

word ? — 
Delicto .■ but his house, for so they 

say, 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that 

shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt 

at doors. 
And rummaged like a rat : no servant 

stay'd : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds 

and chairs, 
And all his household stuff; and with 

his boy 
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the 

tilt, 



82 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 



Sets out, and meets a friend who liails 

him, " What ! 
You're flitting ! " " Yes, we're fli^ 

ting," says the ghost 
(For they had pack'd the thing among 

the beds,) 
" Oh well," says he, " you flitting with 

us too — 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home 

again." 
John. He left Ms wife behind ; for 

so I heard. 
James. He left her, yes. I met my 

lady once : 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as 

crabs. 
John. Oh yet but I remember, ten 

years back — 
'Tis now at least ten years — and tlien 

she was — 
You could not light upon a sweeter 

thing : 
A body slight and round, and like a 

pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a 

foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a 

skin 
As clean and white as privet when it 

flowers. 
James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, 

and they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat 

and dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager, 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt 

shame and pride, 
New things and old, himself and her, 

she sour'd 
To wliat she is : a nature never 

kind ! 
Like men, like manners : like breeds 

like, they say : 
Kind nature is the best: those man- 
ners next 
Tliat fit us like a nature second-hand ; 
'AVhich are indeed the manners of tiie 

great. 
John. But I had heard it was this 

bill that past. 
And fear of change at home, that 

drove liim hence. 
James. Tliat was the last drop in 

the cup of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff 

brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have 

seen him wince 
As from a venomous thing : he thought 

himself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a 

cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and 

his nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody 

thumbs 



Sweat on his blazon'd cluiirs ; but, sir, 

you know 
That these two parties still divide the 

world — 
Of those tiiat want, and those that 

have : and still 
The same old sore breaks out from 

age to age 
With much the same result. Now I 

myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I 

would. 
I was at school — a college in the 

South : 
There lived a flayflint near; we stole 

his fruit, 
His hens, his eggs ; but there was law 

for us ; 
We paid in person. He had a sow, 

sir. She, 
With meditative grunts of much con- 
tent, 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun 

and mud. 
By night we dragg'd lier to the col- 
lege tower 
From her warm bed, and iip the cork- 
screw stair 
With hand and rope we haled the 

groaning sow. 
And on the leads we kept her till she 

pigg'd. 
Large range of ]3rospect had tlie 

mother sow. 
And but for daily loss of one she loved 
As one by one we took them — but for 

this — 
As never sow was higher in this 

world — 
Might have been hapjiy : but what lot 

is pure ? 
We took them all, till she was left 

alone 
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, 
And so return'd unfarrow'd to lier 

sty. 
Jolin. They found you out ? 
James. Not they. 

John. Well — after all — 

What know we of the secret of a 

man? 
His nerves were wrong. What ails 

us, who are sound, 
That we should mimic this raw fool 

the world. 
Which charts us all in its coarse 

blacks or whites. 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a sclioolboy ere he grows 
To Pity — more from ignorance than 

"will. 
But put your best foot forward, or 

I fear 
That we shall miss the mail : and here 

it comes 



EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 



83 



With five at top : as quaint a four-in- 
hand 

As you sliall see — three pyehalds and 
a roan. 



EDWIN MORRIS; 

OR, THE LAKE. 

ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake, 
My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters 

of a year. 
My one Oasis in the dust and drouth 
Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : 
See here, my doing : curves of moun- 
tain, bridge, 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 
When men knew how to build, upon a 

rock 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock • 
And here, new-comers in an ancient 

hold. 
New-comers from the Mersey, million- 
aires. 
Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chim- 

nied bulk 
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of 
bowers. 
O me, my pleasant rambles by the 
lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward 

Bull 
The curate ; he was fatter than his 
cure. 

But Edwin Morris, he that knew the 

names, 
Long learned names of agaric, moss 

and fern. 
Who forged a thousand theories of the 

rocks, 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, 

to swim, 
Who read me rhymes elaborately good, 
His own — I call'd him Crichton, for 

he seem'd 
All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. 

And once I ask'd him of his early 

life. 
And his first passion ; and he answer'd 

me ; 
And well his words became him : was 

he not 
A full-cell'd lioneycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers % Foet-like he 

spoke. 

"My love for Nature is as old as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to 

that. 
And three rich sennights more, my love 

for her. 
My love for Nature and my love for 

her, 



()f different ages, like twin-sisters 

grew, 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the 

sun. 
And some full music seem'd to move 

and change 
With all the varied changes of the 

dark. 
And either twilight and the day be- 
tween ; 
For daily hope fulfill'd, to rise again 
Revolving toward fulfilment, made it 

sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to 

breathe." 

Or this or something like to this he 

spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate Edward 

Bull, 
" I take it, God made the woman for 

tlie man. 
And for the good and increase of the 

world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well. 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us 

up. 
And keeps us tight ; but these unreal 

ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and 

indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of 

solid stuff, 
I say, God made the woman for the 

man. 
And for the good and increase of the 

world." 

" Parson," said I, " you pitch the pipe 

too low : 
But I have sudden touches, and can 

run 
My faith beyond my practice into his : 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce have other music : yet say on. 
What should one give to light on such 

a dream ? " 
I ask'd him half-sardonically. 

" Give ■? 
Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a 

light 
Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy 

cheek ; 
" I would have hid her needle in my 

heart. 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin : my ears 

could hear 
Her lightest breath ; her least remark 

was worth 
The experience of the wise. I went 

and came ; 
Her voice fled always thro' the summer 

land ; 



S4 



ED]VIX MORRIS: OR, THE LAKE. 



I spoke her name alone. Tliricc-]iapi\v 

days ! 
The flower of each, those moments 

when we met, 
The crown of all, we met to part no 

more." 

Were not his Avords delicious, I a 
beast 

To take them as I did "? but something 
jarr'd ; 

Whether he spoke too largely- ; that 
there seem'd 

A touch of something false, some self- 
conceit, 

Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it Avas, 

He scarcely hit my humor, and I said : 

"Friend Edwin, do not think your- 
self alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to 

me, 
As in the Latin song I learnt at school. 
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right 

and left ? 
But you can talk : yours is a kindly 

vein : 
I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as 

much within ; 
Have, or should have, but for a 

thought or two. 
That like a purple beech among the 

greens 
Looks out of place : 'tis from no want 

in her : 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, 
Or something of a wayward modern 

mind 
Dissecting passion. Time will set me 

right." 

So spoke I knowing not the things 

that were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward 

Bull: 
" God made the woman for the use of 

man. 
And for the good and increase of the 

world." 
And I and Edwin laughed ; and now 

we paused 
About the windings of the marge to 

hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy 

holms 
And alders, garden-isles ; and now we 

left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Delighted with the freshness and the 

sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on 
their crags, 
My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by 
him 



That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, 
The rentroU Cupid of our rainy isles. 
'Tis true, we met ; one hour I had, no 

more : 
She sent a note, the seal an EUe voits 

suit, 
The close, " Your Letty, only yours " ; 

and this 
Tiirice underscored. The friendly 

mist of morn 
Clung to the lake. I boated over, 

ran 
M3' craft aground, and heard with 

beating heart 
The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelv- 
ing keel ; 
And out I stei^t, and up I crept : she 

moved, 
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering 

flowers : 
Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; 

and she, 
She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore 

faith, I breathed 
In some new planet : a silent cousin 

stole 
Upon us and departed : " Leave," she 

cried, 
" leave me ! " " Never, dearest, 

never : here 
I brave the worst:" and while we 

stood like fools 
Embracing, all at once a score of 

pugs 
And poodles yell'd within, and out 

they came 
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. 

" What, with him ! 
Go" (shrill'd the cotton-spinning 

chorus) ; "him! " 
I choked. Again they shriek'd tlie 

burthen — " Him ! " 
Again with hands of wild rejection 

" Go ! — 
Girl, get you in ! " She went — and in 

one month 
They wedded her to sixty thousand 

pounds. 
To lands in Kent and messuages in 

York, 
And slight Sir Eobert with his watery 

smile 
And educated whisker. But for ine, 
They set an ancient creditor lu 

work: 
It seems I broke a close with force 

and arms : 
There came a mystic token from tlie 

king 
To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! 
I read, and fled by night, and flying 

turn'd : 
Her taper glimmer'd in the lake be- 
low : 
I turn'd once more, close-button'd to 

the storm ; 



ST. SIMEON' STYLITES. 



85 



So left the j^lace, loft Edwin, nor have 

seen 
Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared 

to hear. 

Nor cared to hear ■? perhaps : yet 
long ago 

I have pardon'd little Letty ; not in- 
deed. 

It may be, for her own dear sake but 
this. 

She seems a part of those fresh days 
to me ; 

For in the dust and drouth of Lon- 
don life 

She moves among my visions of the 
lake, 

"While the prime swallow dips his 
wing, or then 

While the gold-lily blows, and over- 
head 

The light cloud smoulders on the 
summer crag. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

Altho' I be the basest of mankind. 
From scalp to sole one slough and 

crust of sin. 
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, 

scarce meet 
For troops of devils, mad with blas- 
phemy, 
I will not cease to grasp the hope I 

hold 
Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn 

and sob, 
Battering the gates of lieaven with 

storms of prayer. 
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my 

sin. 
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty 

God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten 

years. 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman 

pangs. 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and 

cold. 
In coughs, aclies, stitches, ulcerous 

throes and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the 

cloud, 
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, 

and sleet, and snow ; 
And I had hoped that ere this period 

closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into 

thy rest. 
Denying not these weather-beaten 

limbs 
Tlie meed of saints, the whit6 robe 

and the palm. 



C) take the meaning. Lord : I do not 

breathe, 
Xot whisper, any murmur of com- 
plaint. 
Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, 

were still 
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to 

bear, 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, 

that crush'd 
iMy spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at 

the first. 
For I was strong and hale of body 

then ; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are 

dropt away, 
"Would chatter with the »cold, and all 

my beard 
"Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the 

moon, 
I drown'd the whoopings of the owl 

with sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and 

sometimes saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I 

sang. 
Xow am I feeble grown ; my end 

draws nigh ; 
I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf 

I am. 
So that I scarce can hear the people 

hum 
About the column's base, and almost 

blind. 
And scarce can recognize the fields I 

know ; 
And both my thighs are rotted with 

the dew; 
Yet cease I not to clamor and to 

cry, 
While my stiff spine can hold my 

weary head. 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from 

the stone, 
Have mercy, mercy: take away my 

sin. 
O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my 

soul, 
"Who may be saved ? who is it may be 

saved ? 
"Who may be made a saint, if I fail 

here ? 
Show me the man hath suffer'd more 

than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one 

death ? 
For either they were stoned, or cruci- 
fied. 
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or 

sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die 

here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life 

of death. 



86 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



Bear witness, if I could liave found a 

way 
(And heedfully I sifted all my 

thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this 

home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and 

hate, 
I had not stinted practice, my God. 
Tor not alone this pillar-punish- 
ment, 
Not this alone I bore : but while I 

lived 
In the white convent down the valley 

there, 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The robe that haled the buckets from 

the well. 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the 

noose ; 
And spake not of it to a single soul, 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that 

all 
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More 

than this 
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest 

all. 
Three winters, that my soul might 

grow to tliee, 
I lived up there on yonder mountain 

side. 
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I 

lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged 

stones ; 
Inswatlied sometimes in wandering 

mist, and twice 
Black'd with thy branding thunder, 

and sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and 

eating not. 
Except the spare chance-gift of those 

that came 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and 

live: 
And they say then that I work'd mir- 
acles, 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst 

mankind, 
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. 

Thou, God, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy ! cover all my sin. 
Then, that I might be more alone 

Avith thee, 
Three years I lived upon a pillar, 

high 
Six cubits, and three years on one of 

twelve ; 
And twice three years I crouch'd on 

one that rose 
Twenty by measure; last of all, I 

grew 
Twice ten long weary weary years to 

this. 



That numbers forty cubits from the 

soil. 
I think that I have borne as much 

as this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a 

time, 
If I mav measure time by yon slow 

light, 
And this high dial, which my sorrow 

crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well. 
For that the evil ones come here, and 

say, 
" Fall down, O Simeon : that hast 

suffer'd long 
For ages and for ages ! " then they 

prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 
Perplexing me with lies; and oft I 

fall, 
Maybe for months, in such blind 

lethargies 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time 

are choked. 

But yet 
Bethink thee. Lord, while thou and 

all the saints 
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men 

on earth 
House in the shade of comfortable 

roofs, 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat whole- 
some food, 
And wear warm clothes, and even 

beasts have stalls, 
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of 

the light, 
Bow down one thousand and two hun- 
dred times. 
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the 

saints ; 
Or in the night, after a little sleep, 
I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am 

wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff with 

crackling frost. 
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my 

back ; 
A grazing iron collar grinds my 

neck; 
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the 

cross, 
And strive and wrestle with thee till 

I die : 
O mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. 
O Lord, thou knowest what a man 

I am ; 
A sinful man, conceived and born in 

sin : 
'Tis their own doing ; this is none of 

mine ; 
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for 

this, 
That here come those that worship 

me ? Ha ! ha ! 



ST. SIMEOX STYLITES. 



87 



The}' think that I am somcwliat. 

What am I ? 
Tlie sill}' people take me for a saint, 
And bring me offerings of fruit and 

flowers : 
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness 

here) 
Have all in all endured as much., and 

more 
Than many just and holy men, whose 

names 
Are register'd and calendar'd for 

saints. 
Good people, you do ill to kneel to 

me. 
What is it I can have done to merit 

this? 
I am a sinner A'iler than you all. 
It may be I have wrought some mira- 
cles, 
And cured some halt and maim'd ; but 

what of that ? 
It may be, no one, even among the 

saints, 
May match his pains with mine ; but 

what of that ? 
Yet do not rise ; for you may look on 

me, 
And in your looking you may kneel 

to God. 
Speak ! is there any of you halt or 

maim'd ? 
I think you know I have some power 

with Heaven 
From my long penance : let him speak 

his wish. 
Yes, I can heal him. Power goes 

forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, 

hark ! they shout 
"St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. U my soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, 
Can I work miracles and not be saved ? 
This is not told of any. They were 

saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be-saved ; 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, 

" Behold a saint ! " 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull ciirys- 

alis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope 

ere death 
Spreads more and more and more, that 

God hath now 
Sponged and made blank of crimeful 

record all 
My mortal archives. 

my sons, my sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the 

end; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine 

bakes ; 



I, whose bald brows in silent hours 

become 
Unnaturally hoar witli rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here 

proclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals 

I lay, 
A vessel full of sin: all hell beneatli 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck "d 

my sleeve, 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at 

me. 
I smote them with the cross; they 

swarm'd again. 
In bed like monstrous apes they 

crush'd my chest : 
They flapp'd my light out as I read : I 

saw 
Their faces grow between me and my 

book; 
With colt-like whinny and with hog- 
gish whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way 

was left, 
And by this way I 'scaped them. 

Mortify 
Your flesh, like me, with scourges 

and with thorns ; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it 

maj' be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, 

with slow steps, 
With slow, faint steps, and much 

exceeding pain, 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, 

that still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me 

the praise : 
God only through his bounty hath 

thouglit fit. 
Among the powers and princes of this 

world. 
To make me an example to mankind, 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do 

not say 
But that a time may come — yea, even 

now. 
Now, now, his footsteps smite tlie 

threshold stairs 
Of life — I sa}^ that time is at the doors 
When you may worship me without 

reproach ; 
For I will leave my relics in your land, 
And you may carve a shrine about 

my dust. 
And burn a fragrant lamp before my 

bones. 
When I am gather'd to the glorious 

saints. 
While I spake then, a sting of 

shrewdest pain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloud- 
like change. 
In passing, with a grosser film made 
" thick 



ss 



THE TALKING OAK. 



These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! 

the end ! 
Surely the end ! What's here ? a 

shape, a shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel 

there 
That holds a crown ? Come, blessed 

brother, come. 
I know thy glittering face. I waited 

long ; 
My brows are ready. What ! deny it 

now? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So T 

clutch it. Christ ! 
'Tis gone : 'tis here again ; the crown ! 

the crown ! 
So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, 

and frankincense. 
Ah ! let me not be f ool'd, sweet saints : 

I triist 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet 

for Heaven. 
Speak, if there be a priest, a man 

of God, 
Among you there, and let him pres- 
ently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the 

shaft. 
And climbing ujd into my airy home. 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the w-arning of the Holy Ghost, 
I projihesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people ; let them 

take 
Example, pattern : lead them to thy 

light. 



THE TALKING OAK. 

Once more the gate behind me falls ; 

Once more before my face 
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 

That stand within the chace. 

Beyond the lodge the city lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke ; 

And ah ! with what delighted eyes 
I turn to yonder oak. 

For wlien my passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me burn'd. 

The love, that makes me thrice a man. 
Could hope itself return'd; 

To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint. 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 

Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart, 
And tolil him of my choice. 



Lentil he plagiarized a heart, , 

And answer'd with a voice. 

The' what he whisper'd under Heaven 
None else could understand ; 

I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary hour; 
'Twere well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern. 
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 

Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 

If ever maid or spouse. 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs. — 

" O Walter, I have shelter'd here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by year 

Made ripe in Sumner-chace : 

"Old Summers, when the monk was fat. 
And, issuing shorn and sleek, 

Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 
The girls upon the cheek, 

"Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And number'd bead, and shrift, 

Bluff Harry broke into the spence 
And turn'd the cowls adrift : 

" And I have seen some score of those 
Fresh faces, that would thrive 

When his man-minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five ; 

"And all that from the town would 
stroll. 

Till that wild wind made work 
In which the gloomy brewer's soul 

Went by me, like a stork : 

" The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 

And others, jiassing jiraise, 
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 
■For puritanic stays : 

" And I have shadow'd many a group 
Of beauties, that were born 

In teacup-times of hood and hoop. 
Or while the patch was worn ; 

"And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, 
About me leap'd and laugh'd 

The modish Cupid of the day. 
And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 

"I swear (and else may insects prick 
Each leaf into a gall) 



THE TALKING OAK. 



89 



This girl, for whom your lieart is sick, 
Is three times worth them all ; 

"For those r^nd tlicirs, by Nature's 
law 
Have faded long ago ; 



But in these latter springs I saw 
Your own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gamboll'd on the 
greens 
A baby-germ, to when 




UPC the moulder'd Ahbey-walh, 
That stand within the chace." 



The maiden blossoms of her teens 
Could number five from ten. 

" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 

That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years — 

" Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 
Did never creature pass 



So slightly, musically made, 
So light upon the grass : 

" For as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 

I hold them exquisitel}' knit. 
But far too spare of flesh." 

Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern, 
And overlook the chace ; 



90 



THE TALKING OAK. 



. And from thy topmost branch discern 
The roofs of Sumner-jjlace. 

But thou, whereon I carved lier name, 
That oft has heard mj' voms. 

Declare when last Olivia came 
To sport beneath thy boughs. 

" yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holden at the town ; 
Her father left his good arm-chair. 

And rode his hunter down. 

" And with him Albert came on his. 

I look'd at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxlip is. 

So seems she to the boy. 

" An hour had past — and, sitting 
. straight 

Witliin the low-wheel'd chaise. 
Her mother trundled to the gate 

Behind the dappled grays. 

" But as for her, she stay'd at home. 

And on the roof she went. 
And down the M-ay yovi use to come, 

She look'd with discontent. 

" She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf ; 
She left the new piano shut : 

She could not please herself. 

" Then ran she, gamesome as the colt. 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 

" A light wind chased her on the wing. 
And in the chase grew wild, 

As close as might be would he cling 
About the darling child : 

" But light as any wind that blows 

So fleetly did she stir, 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and 
rose. 

And turn'd to look at her. 

" And here she came, and round me 
play'd, 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my ' giant bole * ; 

"And in a fit of frolic mirth 
She strove to span my waist : 

Alas, I was so broad of girth, 
I could not be embraced. 

"I wish'd myself the fair young beech 
That here beside me stands, 

That round me, clasping each in each. 
She might have lock'd her hands. 



" Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as 
sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold, . 
Or when I feel about ray feet 

The berried briony fold." 

muffle roimd thy knees with fern, 
And shadow Sumner-chace !. 

Long may tliy topmost branch discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

But tell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
When last Mith throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs ? 

"0 j"es, she wandcr'd round and round 
These knotted knees of mine. 

And found, and kiss'd the name she 
found, 
And sweetly murmur'd thine. 

" A teardrop trembled from its source, 
And down my surface crept. 

My sense of touch is something coarse. 
But I believe she wei)t. 

"Then flush'd her cheek with rosy 
light, 

She glanced across the plain ; 
But Y\Q% a creature was in sight : 

She kiss'd me once again. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind. 
That, trust me on my word. 

Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind. 
But yet my sap was stirr'd : 

" And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern'd. 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turn'd. 



may 



"Thrice-happy he that may caress 
The ringlet's waving balm — 

The cushions of whose touch 
press 
The maiden's tender i)alm. 

" I, rooted here among the groves. 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 



" For ah ! my friend, the days were 
brief 
Whereof the poets talk. 
When that, which breathes within the 
leaf. 
Could slip its bark and walk. 

" But could I, as in times foregone. 
From spray, and branch, and stem, 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 



THE TALKING OAK. 



91 



" She had not found mc so remiss ; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would Jiave paid her kiss for kiss, 

With usury thereto." 

O flourish liigh, with leafy towers, 

And overlook the lea, 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers 

But leave thou mine to me. 

( ) flourish, hidden deep in fern, 

(.)ld oak, I love thee well ; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 

" 'Tis little more : the day was warm ; 

At last, tired out with play. 
She snnlc her head upon her arm 

And at my feet she lay. 

" Her eyelids dro2)p'd their silken 
eaves. 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

"I took the swarming sound of life — 
The music from the town — 

The murmurs of the drum and fife 
And luU'd them in my own. 

" Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second flutter'd round her lip 

Like a golden butterfly ; 

" A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine ; 

Another slid, a sunny fleck. 
From head to ankle fine, 

"Then close and dark my arms I 
spread. 

And shadow'd all her rest — 
Dropt dews upon her golden head, 

An acorn in her breast. 

" But in a pet she started up. 
And x>luck'd it out, and drew 

My little oakling from the cup, 
And flung him in the dew. 

" And 3'et it M'as a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

" I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

kiss him once for me. 

" ( ) kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss, 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 



Step deeper j-ct in herb and fern. 
Look further thro' the chace. 

Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, 
The Avarmth it thence shall win 

To rijier life may magnetize 
The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset. 
Or lapse from hand to hand. 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saAv dismember thee, 

Nor wielded axe disjoint. 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

From here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery-tojj 
All throats that gurgle sweet ! 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! 

All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee 
blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 
That under deeply strikes ! 

The northern morning o'er thee shoot. 
High up, in silver spikes ! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 

But, rolling as in sleep, 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain. 

That makes thee broad and deep ! 

And hear me swear a solemn oath. 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, 

And gain her for my bride. 

And when my marriage morn may 
fall. 

She, Dryad-like, shall wear 
Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 

In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose ancl rhyme, 
And praise thee more in both 

Than bard has honor 'd beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth. 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat. 
And mystic sentence spoke ; 

And more than England honors that. 
Thy famous brother-oak, 



92 



LOVE AND DUTY. 



Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the jjaths were dim, 

And far below the Roundhead rode, 
And humni'd a surly hymn. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 
Of love that never found his earthly 

close, 
What sequel ? Streaming eyes and 

breaking hearts ? 
Or all the same as if he had not been ? 
Not so. Shall Error in the round 

of time 
Still father Truth ? O shall the brag- 
gart shout 
Eor some blind glimpse of freedom 

work itself 
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to 

law 
System and empire "? Sin itself be 

found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the 

Sun? 
And only he, tliis wonder, dead, be- 
come 
Mere higlaway dust % or year by year 

alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life. 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of 

himself ? 
If this were thus, if this, indeed, 

were all. 
Better the narrow brain, the stony 

heart. 
The staring eye glazed o'er with sap- 
less days. 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro, 
The set gray life, and ajiathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler thro' thy 

love ? 
tliree times less unworthy ! likewise 

thou 
Art more thro' Love, and greater than 

thy years 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the 

Moon 
Her eircle. Wait, and Love himself 

will bring 
The drooping tlower of knowledge 

changed to fruit 
Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large 

in Time, 
And that wliicli shapes it to. some per- 
fect end. 
Will some one say. Then why not ill 

for good ? 
Why took ve not your pastime "? To 

that man 
My work shall answer, since I knew 

the right 
And (lid it ; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godlike being most a 

man. 
— So let me think 'tis well for thee 

and me — 



Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my 

heart so slow 
To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to 

me, 
When eyes, love-languid tliro' half 

tears would dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon 

mine. 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low 

voice. 
Faltering, would break its syllables, to 

keep 
My own full-timed, — hold passion in 

a leash, 
And not leap forth and fall about thy 

neck, 
And on thy bosom (deep desired 

relief!) 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that 

weigh'd 
Upon my brain, my senses and my soul ! 
For Love himself took part against 

himself 
To warn us off, and Duty loved of 

Love — 
O this woi-ld's curse, — beloved but 

hated — came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace 

and mine, 
And crying, " Who is this ? behold 

thy bride," 
She push'd me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these — 
No, not to thee, but . to thyself in 

me: 
Hard is my doom and thine : tliou 

knowest it all. 
Could Love part thus? was it not 

well to speak, 
To have spoken once ? It could not 

but be well. 
The slow sweet liours that bring us all 

things good. 
The slow sad hours that bring us all 

things ill. 
And all good things from evil, brought 

the night 
In which we sat together and alone, 
And to the want, that hollow'd all the 

heart. 
Gave utterance by the yearning of an 

eye, 
That burn'd upon its object thro' such 

tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred 

times 
In that last kiss, which never was the 

last, 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived 

and died. 
Then foUow'd counsel, comfort, and 

the words 



THE GOLDEN yIaR. 



93 



That make a man feel strong in speak- 
ing truth ; 

Till now the dark was worn, and over- 
head 

The lights of sunset and of sunrise 
mix'd 

In that brief niglit ; the summer night, 
that paused 

Among her stars to hear us; stars 
that hung 

Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels 
of Time • 

Spun round in station, but the end 
had come. 
O then like those, who clench their 
nerves to rush 

Upon their dissolution, we two rose, 

There — closing like an individual 
life — 

In one blind cry of passion and of 
pain, 

Like bitter accusation ev'n to death. 

Caught up the whole of love and 
utter'd it, 

And bade adieu for ever. 

Live — yet live — 

Shall sharpest pathos blight us, know- 
ing all 

Life needs for life is possible to 
will — 

Live hapijy ; tend thy flowers ; be 
tended by 

My blessing! Should my Shadow 
cross thy thoughts 

Too sadly for their peace, remand it 
thou 

For calmer hours to Memory's dark- 
est hold. 

If not to be forgotten — not at 
once — 

Not all forgotten. Should it cross 
thy dreams, 

O might it come like one that looks 
content. 

With quiet eyes unfaithful to the 
truth, 

And point thee forward to a distant 
, light. 

Or seem to lift a burthen from thy 
heart 

And leave thee freer, till thou wake 
refresh'd 

Then when the first low matin-chirp 
hath grown 

Full quire, and morning driv'n her 
plow of pearl 

Far furrowing into light the mounded 
rack. 

Beyond the fair green field and east- 
ern sea. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 

Well, you shall have That song which 

Leonard wrote : 
It was last summer on a tour in Wales : 



Old James was with me : we that day 

had been 
Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leon- 
ard there. 
And found him in Llanberis : then we 

crost 
Between the lakes, and clamber'd half 

way up 
The counter side ; and that same song 

of his 
He told me ; for I banter'd him, and 

swore 
They said he lived shut up within 

himself, 
A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous 

days, 
That, setting the how much before the 

how, 
Cry, like the daughters of the horse- 
leech, " Give, 
Cram us with all," but count not me 

the herd ! 
To which "They call me what they 

will," lie said : 
" But I was born too late : the fair new 

forms. 
That float about the threshold of an 

age. 
Like truths of Science waiting to be 

caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the 

catcher crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, 

hear 
These measured words, my work of 

yestermorn. 
" We sleep and wake and sleep, but 

all things move; 
The Sun flies forward to his brother 

Sun; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her 

ellipse ; 
And human things returning on them- 
selves 
Move onward, leading up the golden 

year. 
" Ah, tho' the times, when some new 

thought can bud, 
Are but as poets' seasons when they 

flower. 
Yet seas, that daily gain upon the 

shore. 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their 

march. 
And slow and sure comes up the 

golden year. 
"When wealth no more shall rest 

in mounded heaps. 
But smit with freer light shall slowly 

melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands, 
And light shall spread, and man be 

liker man 
Thro' all the season of the golden 

year. 



94 



UL YSSES. 



" Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens 

be wrens ? 
If all the world were falcons, what of 

that ? 
The wonder of the eagle were the 

less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden 

year. 
" Fly, happy happy sails, and bear 

the Press ; 
Fly happy with the mission of the 

Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing haven- 
ward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear 

of toll. 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 
" But we grow old. Ah ! when shall 

all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal 

Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the 

sea, 
Thro' all the circle of the golden 

year % " 
Thus far he flow'd, and ended ; 

whereupon 
" Ah, folly ! " in mimic cadence an- 

swer'd James — 
" Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away. 
Not in our time, nor in our children's 

time, 
'Tis like the second world to us that 

live ; 
'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on 

Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year." 
With that he struck his staff against 

the rocks 
And broke it, — James, — ■ you know 

him, — old, but full 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his 

feet, 
And like an oaken stock in winter 

woods, 
O'erflourish'dwith the hoary clematis: 
Then added, all in heat : 

" What stuff is this ! 
Old writers push'd the happy season 

back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward : 

dreamers both : 
You most, that in an age, when every 

hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the 

death. 
Live on, God love us, as if the seeds- 
man, rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not 

plunge 
His hand into the bag : but well I 

know 
That unto him who works, and feels 

he works. 



This same grand j-ear is ever at the 

doors." 
He sjjoke ; and, high above, I heard 

them blast 
The steep slate-quarry, and the great 

echo flaj) 
And buffet round the hills, from bluff 

to bluff. 



ULYSSES. 
It little profits that an idle king, 
By this still hearth, among these bar- 
ren crags, 
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and 

dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race. 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and 

know not me. 
I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees : all times I have en- 

joy'd 
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both 

"with those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, 

and when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rain}' Hyades 
Vext the dim sea : I am become a name; 
For always roaming with a hungry 

heart 
Much have I seen and known ; cities 

of men 
And manners, climates, councils, gov- 
ernments. 
Myself not least, but honor'd of them 

all; 
And drunk delight of battle Mith my 

peers. 
Far on the ringing plains of windy 

Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch where- 

thro' 
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose 

margin fades 
For ever and for ever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an 

end. 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in 

use! 
As tho' to breathe were life. Life 

piled on life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something 

more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it 

were 
For some three suns to store and hoard 

myself. 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge like a sinking 

star. 
Beyond the utmost bound of human 

thought. 



UL YSSES. 



95 



This is my son, mine own Telcma- 

clius, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the 

isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make 

mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the 

good. 



Most blameless is he, centred in the 

sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household 

gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, 

I mine. 
There lies the port ; the vessel jjuffs 

her sail : 



^^-s-S"^^ ■^^^ 




" There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her sail: 
There gloom the dark broad seas." 



There gloom the dark broad seas. My 

mariners, 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, 

and thought with me — 
That ever Avith a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and 

opjjosed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and 

I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and liis toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere 

the end. 
Some work of noble note, may yet be 

done. 
Not unbecoming men that strove with 

Gods. 



The lights begin to twinkle from the 

rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon 

climbs : the deep 
Moans round with many voices. 

Come, my friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order 

smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my pur- 
pose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the 

baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us 

down : 



96 



TTTHONUS. 



It may be we shall touch the Ilappv 

Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we 

knew. 
The' much is taken, much abides ; and 

tlio' 
We arc not now that strength which 

in old days 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which 

we are, we are ; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts. 
Made weak hy time and fate, but 

strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to 

yield. 



TITHOXUS. 
The woods decay, the woods decay 

and fall, 
The vapors weep their burthen to the 

ground, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies 

beneath, 
And after many a summer dies the 

swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes : I wither slowly in thine 

arms. 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A Vhite-hair'd shadow roaming like a 

dream 
The ever-silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls 

of morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a 

man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy 

choice, 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he 

seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a 

God ! 
I ask'd thee, " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking 

with a smile, 
Like wealthy men who care not how 

they give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant 

work'd their wills, 
And beat me down and marr'd and 

wasted me. 
And tho' they could not end me, left 

me maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal 

youth. 
Immortal age beside immortal youth, 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy 

love. 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even 

now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy 

guide. 
Shines in those tremulous eyes ihat 

fill with tears 



To liear me ? Let me go : take back 

thy gift : 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men, 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most 

meet for all 1 

A soft air fans the cloud apart ; 

there comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where 

I was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glim- 
mer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy 

shoulders pure. 
And TSosoni beating with a heart re- 

new'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the 

gloom. 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close 

to mine. 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the 

wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy 

yoke, arise, 
And shake the darkness from their 

loosen'd manes. 
And beat the twilight into flakes of 

fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beauti- 
ful 

In silence, then before thine answer 
given 

Departest, and thy tears are on my 
cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with 

thy tears. 
And make me tremble lest a saying 

learnt. 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be 

true ? 
"The Gods themselves cannot recall 

their gifts." 
Ay nle ! ay me ! with what another 

heart 
In days far-off, and with what other 

eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that 

watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee ; 

saw 
Tbe dim purls kindle into sunny rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and 

felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crim- 

son'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I 

lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing 

dewy-warm 
With kisses balmier than half-open- 
ing buds 



LOCKS LEY HALL. 97 



Of April, and could hear the lips that 

kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild 

and sweet, 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo 



Floats up from those dim fields about 

the homes 
Of happy men that have the power 

to die, 
And grassy barrows of the happier 



sing, 1 dead. 

While Ilion like a mist rose into \ Kelease me, and restore me to the 



towers. 
Yet hold me not for ever in thine 

East : 
How can my nature longer mix with 

thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my 

wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, 

when the steam 



ground ; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my 

grave : 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by 

morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty 

courts. 
And thee returning on thy silver 

wheels. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



CojiRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn : 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call. 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts. 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Mam^ a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest. 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade. 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. — 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; 

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. 

And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me. 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light. 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — 
All the spirit dee^jly dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — 

Saying, "I have iiid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong"; 
Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, " I have loved thee long." 



98 LOCKSLEY HALL. 



Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, 
And her Avhisper throng'd my i)ulses with the fulness of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch tlie stately ships, 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! my Amy, mine no more ! 

the dreary, dreary moorland ! the barren, barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, 
Pupjjet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown. 

And the grossness of his nature will have M'eight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 

What is this ? his eyes are heavy • think not they are glazed with wine. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou Avert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, 
Koll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool! 

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster! — Hadst thou less unworthy 

proved — 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit ? 

1 will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind 1 

I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move : 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 99 



Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. 

Comfort 7 comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is ou the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall. 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, 
To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years. 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears ; 

And an ej'e shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 
'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 

Babj' lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part. 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 

" They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not 

exempt — 
Truly, she herself had suff er'd " — Perish in thy self-contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care ? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these 1 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, 

When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from tliy deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield. 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field. 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer dra\vn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; 



100 LOCKSLEY HALL. 



And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then. 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men : 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do ; 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm. 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

_j^ There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, 
~l And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.^^. 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint : 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher. 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. 

. Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, 
■"■r" • And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's 1 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn. 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string ? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain : 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine. 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. All, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away. 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 



CODIVA. 



101 



y< 



Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, 

Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-jjurple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing 

space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of tlie brooks, 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — 

Eool, again the dream, the fancy! but I linoiv my words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. 

I, to herd witli narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in A jalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, 
Let the great world sjiin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : 
Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vajior from the margin, blackening over heath and holt. 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 



GODIVA. 

/ waited for the train at Curoitri/ ; 

I hung with grooms and porters on the 

bridge, 
To watch the three tall spires ; and there 

I shaped 
The citji's ancient legend into this: — 
Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 



New men, that in the flying of awheel 

Cry down the jjast, not only we, that 
prate 

Of rights and wrongs, have loved the 
people well. 

And loathed to see them over-tax'd ; 
but she 

Did more, and underwent, and over- 
came, 



102 



GOD IV A. 



The woman of a thousand summers 

back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who 

ruled 
In Coventry : for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers 

brought 
Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, 

we starve ! " 
She sought her lord, and found him, 

where he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone, 
His beard a foot before him, and his 

hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their 

tears. 
And pray'd him, " If they pay this tax, 

they starve." 
Whereat he stared, replying, half- 
amazed, 
" You would not let your little finger 

ache 
For such as these ? " — " But I would 

die," said she. 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by 

Paul : 
Then fillip'd at the diamond in her 

ear; 
" Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk ! " — " Alas ! " 

she said, 
" But prove me what it is I would not 

do." 
And from a heart as rough as Esau's 

hand. 
He answer'd, " Ride j'ou naked thro' 

the town. 
And I repeal it " ; and nodding, as in 

scorn. 
He parted, with great strides among 

his dogs. 
So left alone, the passions of her 

mind, 
As winds from all the compass shift 

and blow. 
Made war upon each other for an horn*. 
Till jjity won. She sent a herald fortii, 
And bade him cry, with sound of 

trumpet, all 
The hard condition ; but that she 

would loose 
The people : therefore, as they loved 

her well. 
From then till noon no foot should 

pace the street. 
No eye look down, she passing ; but 

that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and 

window barr'd. 
Then fled she to her inmost bower, 

and there 
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her 

belt. 
The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a 

breath 
She linger'd, looking like a summer 

moon 



Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook 

her head, 
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to 

her knee ; 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the 

stair 
Stole on ; and, like a creeping sun- 
beam, slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she 

reach 'd 
The gateway ; there she found her 

palfrey tra])t 
In purple blazon'd with armorial 

gold. 
Then she rode forth, clothed on with 

chastity : 
The deep air listen'd round her as she - 

rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed 

for fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon 

the spout 
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking 

cur 
Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's 

footfall shot 
Like horrors thro' her pulses : the 

blind walls 
Were full of chinks and holes ; and 

OA'erhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : 

but slie 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she 

saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from 

the field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the 

wall. 
Then she rode back, clothed on with 

chastity : 
And one low churl, compact of thank- 
less earth, 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had 

their will. 
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his 

head. 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, 

who wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense mis- 
used; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and 

all at once. 
With twelve great shocks of sound, 

the shameless noon 
Was clash'd and hammer'd from a 

hundred towers. 
One after one : but even then she 

gain'd 
Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed 

and erown'd. 
To meet her lord, she took the tax 

away 
And built herself an everlasting 

name. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



103 



THE DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

Lady Flora, let me speak : 

A pleasaut hour has passed away 
While, dreaming on your damask 
cheek. 



Tlic dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm, 




" The varying year tvith blade and sheaf 
Clothes and reclothes the happy plains." 



The reflex of a legend past. 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I 
had. 

And see the vision that I saw, 
Then take the broidery -frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn your face. 

Nor look with that too-earnest 
eye — 



The rhymes are dazzled from their 
place. 
And order'd words asunder fly. 



THE SLEEPING PALACE. 
I. 
The varying year with blade and sheaf 
Clothes and reclothes the happy 
plains. 



104 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



Here rests the sap within the leaf, 
Here stays the blood along the veins. 

Faint shadows, vapors lightly ciirl'd, 
Faint murmurs from the meadows 
come. 

Like hints and echoes of the world 
To spirits folded in the womb. 



Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower, 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower. 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 



Roof-haunting martins warm their 
eggs: 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily : no sound is made. 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemetli all 
Than those old portraits of old kings, 

That watch the sleepers from the 
wall. 



Here sits the Butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drain'd ; and 
there 
The wrinkled steward at his task. 

The maid-of -honor blooming fair; 
The page has caught her hand in his : 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak : 
His own are pouted to a kiss : 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 



Till all th? hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine. 
Make prisms in every carven glass. 

And beaker brimm'd with noble 
wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 

Grave faces gather'd in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 



All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as 
blood ; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, burr and brake and 
brier, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen, 

Higli up, the topmost palace spire. 



When will the hundred summers die, 

And thouglit and time be born again. 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh. 

Bring truth that sways the soul of 
men ? 
Here all things in their place remain, 

As all were order'd, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hojie and 
Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 

I. 
Year after year unto her feet. 

She lying on her couch alone. 
Across the purple coverlet, 

The maiden's jet-black hair has 
grown, 
On either side her tranced form- 
Forth streaming from a Ijraid of 
pearl : 
The slumbrous light is rich and warm, 
And moves not on the rounded curl. 



The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 

Her full black ringlets downward 
roll'd. 
Glows forth each softly-shadow'd arm 
With bracelets of the diamond 
bright : 
Her constant beauty doth inform 
Stillness with love, and day with 
light. 



She sleeps : her breathings are not 
heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps : on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly 
jirest : 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 



THE ARRIVAL. 



All precious things, discover'd late, 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
For love in sequel works with fate. 

And draws the veil from hidden 
worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



105 



The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass, 
Are withcr'd in the thorny close, 

Or scatter'd blancliing on tlie grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead : 

" They perish'd in their daring 
deeds." 
This proverb flashes thro' his head, 

" The many fail : the one succeeds." 



He comes, scarce knowing what he 
seeks : 

He breaks the hedge : he enters 
there : 
The color flies into his cheeks : 

He trusts to light on something fair; 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 

And whisper'd voices at his ear. 



More close and close his footsteps 
wind : 
The Magic Music in his heart 
lieats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
The spirit flutters like a lark, 

Ho stoops — ^to kiss her — on his 
knee. 
"Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 
How dark those hidden eyes must 
be!" 



THE REVIVAL. 



A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 
There rose a noise of striking clocks, 



And feet that ran, and doors that clapt. 
And barking dogs, and crowing 
cocks; 

A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 

A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 
And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



The liedge broke in, the banner blew. 
The butler drank, the steward 
scrawl 'd. 
The fire shot up, the martin flew. 
The parrot scream'd, the peacock 
squall'd. 
The maid and page renew'd their strife. 
The palace bang'd, and buzz'd and 
clackt. 
And all the long-pent stream of life 
Dash'd downward in a cataract. 



And last with these the king awoke, 

And in his chair himself uprear'd. 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and 
spoke, 

" By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 



" Pardy," return'd the king, " but still 

My joints are somewhat stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall wo pass the bill 

I mention'd half an hour ago '? " 
The chancellor, sedate and vain, 

In courteous words return'd reply : 
But dallied with his golden chain. 

And, smiling, put the question by. 




" Across the /nils, and fur uiraii 
Dei/ond this utmost jiurph rim. 



THE DEPARTURE. 
I. 
Ano on her lover's arm she leant. 
And round her waist she felt it fold, 



And far across the hills they went 
In that now world which is the old: 

Across the hills, and far away 
Beyond this utmost purple rim. 



106 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



And deep into the dying day 

Tlie happy princess foUow'd him. 



" I'd sleep another hundred years, 

{) love, for such another kiss ; " 
" O wake for ever, love," she hears, 

" ( ) love, 'twas such as this and this." 
And o'er tlieni many a sliding star. 

And many a merry wind was borne. 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar. 

The twilight melted into morn. 



" O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 

" O happy^sleep, that lightly fled ! " 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 



" O love, thy kiss would wake the 
dead ! " 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark, 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change. 

The twilight died into the dark. 

IV. 

" A hundred sunnners ! can it be ? 

And whither goest tiiou, tell me 
where ? " 
" O seek my father's court with me, 

For there are greater wonders 
there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
Beyond the night, across the day. 

Thro' all the world slio follow'd him. 




" And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 
The twilight died into the dark.'' 



MORAL. 
I. 
So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And if you find no moral there, 
Go, look in any glass and say, 
Wliat moral is in being fair. 
Oh, to what uses shall we put 

The wildweed flower that simply 
blows 'I. 
And is there any moral shut 
Within the bosom of the rose '] 



But any man that walks the mead, 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may find. 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal aj)plications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; 
So 'twere to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 



L'ENVOI. 



YoiT shake your head. A random 
string 

Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends ; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 
And every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep 
again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars. 

And wake on science grown to more, 
On secrets of the brain, the stars. 

As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the j'ears will show. 

The Poet-forms of stronger hours. 
The vast Republics that may grow, 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 



AMPHION. 



107 



In divers seasons, clivers climes ; 
For we are Ancients of the earth, 
And in the morning of the times. 



So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 
Thro' sunny decadesnewand strange, 

Or gay quinquenniads would we reap 
The flower and quintessence of 
change. 

III. 

All, yet would I — and would I might 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake ! 
For, am I right, or am I wrong. 

To choose your own you did not 
care ; 
You'd have ?«// moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there . 
And, am I right or am I wrong. 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro'. 
To search a meaning for the song. 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

All-graceful head, so richly curl'd. 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 



For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour. 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower, 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd 
hopes. 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly 
join'd ■? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 
Which all too dearly self-involved. 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; 
A sleep by kisses undissolved. 

That lets thee neither hear nor see: 
But break it. In the name of wife, 

And in the rights that name may 
give, 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, 

And that for which I care to live. 



EPILOGUE. 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

" What wonder, if he thinks me 
fair ? " 
What wonder I was all unwise. 

To shape the song for your delight 
Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot 
light ? 



Or old-world trains, upheld at court 
By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 

But take it — earnest wed with sport, 
And either sacred unto you. 



AMPHION. 

My father left a park to me. 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree. 

And waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighbors when they call. 

It is not bad but good land, 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O had I lived when song was great 

In daj's of old Amphion, 
And ta'cn my fiddle to the gate. 

Nor cared for seed or scion ! 
And had I lived when song was great, 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate. 

And fiddled in the timber ! 

'Tis said he had a tunefultongue, 

Such happy intonation. 
Wherever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation ; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes, 
The gouty oak began to move, 

And flounder into hornpipes. 

The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown. 

And, as tradition teaches. 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches ; 
And briony-vine and ivy-wreath 

Pan forward to his rhyming, 
And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The linden broke her ranks and rent 

The woodbine wreaths that bind her. 
And dov.'n the middle, buzz ! she went 

With all her bees behind her : 
The poplars, in long ordqr due. 

With cypress promenaded. 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shod alder from the wave. 

Came yews, a dismal coterie ; 
Each pluck'd his one foot from the 
grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree : 
Old elms came breaking from the vine, 

The vine stream'd out to follow. 
And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 

From many a cloudy hollow. 

And wasn't it a sight to see. 

When, ere his song was ended. 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree. 



108 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 



The country-side descended ; 
And shepherds from the mountain- 
eaves 
Look'd down, lialf-pleased, half- 
frighten'd, 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 
The random sunshine lighten'd ! 



Oh, nature first was fresh to men, 

And wanton without measure ; 
So youthful and so flexile tlien. 

You moved her at your pleasure. 
Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the 
twigs ! 

And make her dance attendance ; 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, 

And scirrhous roots and tendons. 

'Tis vain ! in sucli a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle ; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle ; 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strumming and with scraping, 
A jackass heeliaws from the rick. 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I liear ? a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading ; 
O Lord! — 'tis in my neighbor's ground. 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening thro' 
there, 
And Methods of transplanting trees 

To look as if they grew there. 

The wither'd Misses ! liow the}'- prose 

O'er books of travell'd seamen. 
And show you slips of all tliat grows 

From England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbors dipt and cut. 

And alleys, faded places, 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt. 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain. 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 

And I must work thro' months of toil. 

And years of cultivation, 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 
I'll take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom : 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossom. 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 



Deki' on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon ; 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes : 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies. 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in m}' bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and 
dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am. 

To that I hoise to be. 
Break up the heavens, Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starhght keen. 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strows her lights below. 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Koll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom 
waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 



SIR GALAHAD. 

My good blade carves tlie casques of 
men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure. 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrillcth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and 

fly. 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands. 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
On whom their favors fall ! 

For them I battle till the end, 
To save from shame and thrall : 

But all my heart is drawn above, 



S//^ GALAHAD. 



109 



My knees are bow'd in crypt and 
shrine : 
T never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on nie beam, 
Me mightier transports move and 
thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 
A virgin heart in work and will. 



When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide. 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 




Tlw s/irill liC'/l rings, thf censer siclnt/s. 
And solemn chants resound between.' 



The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 
And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Tliree angels bear the holy Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides. 

And star-like mingles with the 
stars. 



When on my goodly charger borne 
Thro' dreaming towns I go. 

The cock crows ere the Christmas 
morn, 
Tlie streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads. 
And, ringing, springs from brand 
and mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 

I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 

But blessed forms in whistling 

storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy 



110 



EDWARD GRAY. 



A maiden kniglit — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breatlie tlie airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand. 

This mortal armor that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and 
eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky. 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

"Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
" just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 

By bridge and ford, by park and 
pale, 
All-arm 'd I ride, whate'er betide. 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



EDWARD GRAY. 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder 
town 
Met me walking on yonder way, 
"And have you lost your heart? " 
she said ; 
" And are you married yet, Edward 
Gray ? " 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 
" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no 
more 
Can touch the heart of Edward 
Gray. 

" Ellen Adair she loved me well. 
Against her father's and motlier's 
will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 
Thought her proud, and fled over 
the sea ; 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite. 
When Ellen Adair was dying for 
me. 

" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
'You're too slight' and fickle,' I said, 

'To trouble the heart of Edward 
Gray.' 



" There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair : 

I repent me of all I did : 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! ' 

" Then I took a pencil, and wrote 
Gn the mossy stone, as I lay, 

' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 
And here the heart of Edward 
Gray ! ' 

" Love may come, and love may go. 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to 
tree; 

But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair! 
And there the heart of Edward 
Gray ! " 



WILL WATERPROOF'S 
LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 

MADE AT THE COCK. 

PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, 
To which I most resort. 

How goes the time ? 'Tis five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You sot before chance-comers. 
But such whose father-grape grew fat 

On Lusitanian summers. 

No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind, 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind, 
To make me write my random rhymes, 

Ere they be half-forgotten ; 
Nor add and alter, many times, 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 

1 pledge her, and she comes and dips 

Her laurel in the Avine, 
And lays it thrice upon my lips, 

Tliese favor'd lips of mine ; 
Until the charm have power to make 

New lifeblood warm the bosom, 
And barren commonplaces break 

In full and kindly blossom. 

I pledge her silent at the board; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master-chord 

Of all I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans. 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart within the man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



Ill 



Thro' many an hour of summer suns, 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days : 
I kiss the lips I once have kissM ; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer ; 
And softly, thro' a vinous mist, 

My college friendships glimmer. 

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 

Unboding critic-j^en. 
Or that eternal want of pence, 

Wliich vexes public men. 
Who hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them — ■ 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or tlr}'. 

And all tlie world go by them. 

Ah yet, the' all the world forsake, 

Tlio' fortune clip my wings, 
I will not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy weather ; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; 

If old things, there are new; 
Ten thousand broken lights and 
shapes, 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raft's be rife in prose and rhyme. 

We lack not rhj^mes and reasons, 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid; 

With fair horizons bound : 
This whole wide earth of light and 
shade 

Comes out a jierfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all tilings as they are, 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest 

Half-mused, or reeling ripe. 
The pint, you brought me, was the best 

That ever came from pij^e. 
But tho' the port suri)asses praise, 

My nerves have dealt with stifter. 
Is there some magic in the place ? 

Or do my peptics differ ? 

For since I came to live and learn, 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

Tliis wheel within my liead, 
Which bears a season'd brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, 

Thro' every convolution. 



For I am of a numerous house. 

With many kinsmen gay, 
Wliere long and largely we carouse 

As who shall say me nay : 
Each month, a Ijirth-daj' coining on. 

We drink defying trouble, 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double;' 

Whether tlie vintage, yet unkept, 

Had relish fiery-new, 
Or elbow-deep in sawdust, slept. 

As old as Waterloo ; 
<^)r stow'd, wlien classic Canning died, 

In musty bins and cliambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! 

She answer'd to my call, 
She changes with that mood or this, 

Is all-in-all to all : 
She lit the spark within my throat, 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout. 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally; 
I think he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. 

The Cock was of a larger &^^ 

Than modern poultry drop, 
Stept forward, on a tirmer leg. 

And cramm'd a plumper crop ; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy. 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy 

That knuckled at the taw ; 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and 
good, 

Flew over roof and casement : 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, 

Till, where the street grows straiter, 
One fix'd for ever at the door, 

And one became head-waiter. 



112 



LADY CLARE. 



But whither would my fan(;y go ? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks ! 
'Tis but a steward of the can, 

One shade more plump than com- 
mon ; 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any born of woman. 

I ranged too high : what draws me 
down 

Into the common day ? 
Is it the weight of that half-crown, 

Which I shall have to pay ? 
For, something duller than at first, 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
I sit, my empty glass reversed. 

And thrumming on the table : 

Half fearful that, with self at strife, 

I take myself to task ; 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I leave an emptj- flask : 
For I had hope, by something rare 

To prove myself a poet : 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began, 

Till they be gather'd up ; 
The truth, that flies the flowing can, 

Will haunt the vacant cup : 
And others' follies teach us not. 

Nor much their wisdom teaches ; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone ; 

'Tis gone, and let it go. 
'Tis gone : a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces, 
And fall'n into the dustj^ crypt 

Of darken'd forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more ; 
With peals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-door. 
With twisted quirks and happy hits. 

From misty men of letters ; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits — 

Thine elders and thy betters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and 
looks 

Had yet their native glow : 
Nor yet tlie fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show ; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd. 

He 41ash'd his random speeches. 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd 

His literary leeches. 



So mix for ever with the past, 

Like all good things on earth ! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou 
last, 

At half thy real worth { 
I liold it good, good things should 
pass : 

With time I will not quarrel : 
It is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 



Head-waiter of the chop-house here, 

To which I most resort, 
I too must part : I hold thee dear 

For this good i)int of port. 
For this, thou shalt from -all things 
suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter; 
And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 

Shall fling her old slioe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence, 

The sphere thj' fate allots : 
Thy latter days increased with pence 

Go down among the pots : 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners. 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, we fume, would shift our 
skins, 

Would quarrel with our lot ; 
Thy care is, under polish'd tins, 

To serve the hot-and-hot ; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit, 
And watch'd by silent gentlemen. 

That trifle with the cruet. 

Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes : 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes. 
Till mellow Death, like some late 
guest. 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt 
cease 
To pace the gritted floor. 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more ; 
No carved cross-bones, the types of 
Death, 
Shall show thee past to Heaven : 
But carved cross-pipes, and, under- 
neath, 
A pint-pot neatly graven. 



LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air. 



LADY CLARE. 



113 



Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give liis cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow tliey did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth'd were tliey : 

They too will wed the morrow morn : 
God's blessing on the daj-! 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

lie loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 
Said, " Who was this that went from 
thee ■< " 

" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 

" O God be thank'd ! " said Alice the 
nurse, 
"That all comes round so just and 
fair : 
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

" Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, 
my nurse ? " 
Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so 
. wild 1 " 
" As God's above," said Alice the 
nurse, 
" I speak the truth : vou are mv 
child. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my 
breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child. 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

O mother," she said, " if this be true. 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the 
nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life. 
And all you have will be Lord 
Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

" If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the 
nurse, 

" But keep the secret all ye can." 
She said, " Not so : but I will know 

If there be any faith in man." 



" Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice 
the nurse, 
" The man will cleave unto his 
right." 
" And he shall have it," the lady 
replied, 
" Th®' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother 
dear ! 

Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
" mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear. 
My mother dear, if this be so, 

And lay your hand upon my head. 
And bless me, mother, ere I go." 



She clad herself in a russet gown. 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went by 
down. 
With a single rose in her air. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had 
brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And follow'd her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his 
tower : 
"O Lady Clare, you shame your 
worth ! 
Why come you drest like a village 
maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ? " 



" If I come drest like a village maid, 
I am but as my fortunes are : 

I am a beggar born," she said, 
" And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ro- 
nald, 
" For I am yours in word and in 
deed. 
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : 
He turn'd and kiss'd her where she 
stood : 
" If you are not the heiress born. 
And I," said he, "the next in 
blood — 



114 



THE CAPTAIN. 



" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir. 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 



THE CAPTAIN. 

A LEGEND OF THE NAVT. 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error. 

Let him hear xny song. 
Brave the Captain was : the seamen 

Made a gallant crew, 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression, 

Stei'u he was and rash ; 
So for every liglit transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smothcr'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hojied to i^urchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wlieresoe'er he came 
So they past by capes and islands, 

Many a harbor-mouth. 
Sailing under palmj^ highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they were going 

O'er the lone exjDanse, 
In the north, her canvas flowing, 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's color heighten'd. 

Joyful came his speech : 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
"Chase," he said: the ship flew for- 
ward, 

And the wind did blow ; 
Stately, liglitly, went she Norvvard, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated, 

Had what they desired : 
Mute with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun was fired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring out their doom ; 
All the air M-as torn in sunder, 

Crashing went the boom. 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were shat- 
ter'd, 

Bullets fell like rain ; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd; decks were 
broken : 

Every mother's son — 
Down thej'^ dropt — no word was 
spoken — •' 

Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying. 



Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay dying, 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name. 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart con- 
founded. 

Pale he turn'd and red. 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error ! fearful slaughter! 

Years Jiave wander'd by, 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie* 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering. 
And the lonely seabii'd crosses 

With one waft of tlie wing. 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 

In her ear he whispers gajdy, 

" If my heart by signs can tell. 
Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, 

And I think thou lov'st me well." 
She rejilies, in accents fainter, 

" Tliere is none I love like thee." 
He is but a landscape-painter. 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter. 

Presses his without reproof : 
Leads her to the village altar. 

And they leave her father's roof. 
" I can make no marriage present : 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant. 

And I love thee more tlian life." 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordl}' castles stand : 
Summer woods, about them blowing. 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses. 

Says to her that loves him well, 
"Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes by him attended, 

Hears him lovingly converse. 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and order'd gardens great. 
Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Built for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes liim dearer : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer. 

Where they twain will spend their 
days. 
O but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home ; 
She will order all things duly, 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 



THE VOYAGE. 



115 



Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath tlie gate she turns ; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before : 
Man}' a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before liim at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to liis call, 
While he treads with footsteps firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

" All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty. 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin : 
As it were with shame she blushes, 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove : 
But he clasp'd her like a lover. 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirit sank : 
Shaped her heart with woman's meek- 
ness 

To all duties of hcj'rank : 
And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was sucli 
That she grew a noble lady. 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her. 

And perplex'd her, night and 
morn. 
With the burthen of an honor 

Unto whicli she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter. 

And she murmur'd, " Oh, that he 
Were once more that landscape- 
painter, 

Wliich did win my heart, from 
me ! " 
So she droop'd and droop'd before 
him. 

Fading slowly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore 
him, 

Then before her time she died. 
AYeeping, weeping late and early. 

Walking up and pacing down, 
Deeplj' mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her. 

And he look'd at her and said, 
" Bring the dress and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was 
wed." 
Then her people, softly treading, 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in, 

That her spirit might have rest. 



THE VOYAGE. 

I. 
Wk loft behind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbor-mouth ; 
And madly danced our hearts with joy. 

As fast we fleeted to the South : 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore ! 
We knew tlie merry world was round, 

And we might sail for evermore. 



Warm broke the breeze against tho 
brow, 
Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd 
the gale. 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the 
keel. 
And swept behind ; so quick the run, 
We felt the good shiji shake and reel. 
We seem'd to sail into the Sun ! 



How oft we saw the Sun retire. 

And burn the threshold of the night. 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire, 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light! 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twiliglit slowly downward drawn. 
As tliro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn ! 



New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Clianged every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The liouseless ocean's heaving field, 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield ; 



The peaky islet shifted shapes. 

High towns on hills were dimly seen. 
We past long lines of Northern capes 

And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer waves, and deep 

Across the boundless east we drove. 
Where those long swells of breaker 
sweep 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 



By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and quivering 
brine 
Witli ashy rajns, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 



116 



THE VOYAGE. 



O hundred shores of happy clinics, 
How swiftly stream'd' ye by tlie 
bark ! 
At times the whole seaburn'd, at times 
With wakes of fire we tore the dark; 
At times a carven craft wouhl slioot 
From havens hid in faiiy bowers, 
With naked limbs and flowers r.iid 
fruit, 
But we nor paused for fruit nor 
flowers.' 



For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and 
night, 
And still wc follow'd where she led, 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen, 

And fixt upon the far sea-line ; 
But each man murmur'd, " O my 
Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine." 



And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air, 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge 
fair. 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd 
the sea, 
And now, -the bloodless point reversed, 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 



And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — he was seldom 
pleased : 
He saw not far : his eyes were dim : 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
" A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite, 

"A ship of fools," he sneer'd and 
wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 



And never sail of ours was f url'd. 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
We lov'd the glories of the world, 

But laws of nature were our scorn. 
For blasts would rise and rave and 
cease. 

But whence were those that drove 
the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace. 

And to and thro' the counter gale ? 



Again to colder climes we came, 
For still we follow'd where she led ; 



Now mate is blind and captain lame, 
And half the crew are sick or dead. 

But, blind or lame or sick or sound. 
We follow that which flies before : 

We know the merry world is round. 
And we may sail for evermore. 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND 
QUEEN GUINEVEBE. 

A FRAGMKNT. 

LiKe souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven 

again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. 

In crystal vajior everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between. 
And far, in forest-deeps unseen. 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song : 
Sometimes the throstle whistled 

strong : 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd 

along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of 

wrong : 
By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran, 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan, 
Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year. 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Bode thro' the coverts of the deer. 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyoiis 
Spring : 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore. 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 
Now by some tinkling rivulet. 
In mosses mixt with violet 
Her cream-white mule his pastern set : 
And fleeter now she skimm'd the 

plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings, 
When all the glimmering moorland 

rings 
With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade. 
The' happy winds upon her play'd. 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid : 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 



A FAREWELL. 



117 



The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his wordly worth for this, 
To waste liis whole Jieart in one 
kiss 

Upon lier jierfect lips. 



A FAREWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute wave deliver : 

No more by thee my steps shall be, 
For ever and for ever. 




<iK launx:ei.ot .\ni> qceen guinevkre. 



Flow, softly How, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river: 
No where by thee my steps shall be. 

For ever and for ever. 

But here will sigh tliine alder tree, 
And here thine asjjen shiver; 



And liere by thee will hum the bee, 
For ever and for ever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
For ever and for ever. 



118 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 

Her arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can 
say : 
Bare-footed came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet her on lier way ; 
" It is no wonder," said the lords, 

" She is more beautiful than day." 



As shines the moon in clouded skies, 

She in her poor attire was seen : 
One praised her ankles, one her 
eyes, 
One her dark hair and lovesome 
mien. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace. 
In all that land had never been : 
Cophetua swarc a royal oath : 

"This beggar maid shall be my 
queen ! " 




"In robe and crozvn the king stept down, 
To meet and tjreet her on her way." 



THE EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He clasps the crag with crooked 

hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrjnkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow : 



From fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go ; 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 

All, bear me with thee, smoothly borne. 
Dip forward under starry light, 

And move me to my marriage-morn. 
And round again to happy night. 



(JoME not, when I am dead. 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my 
grave. 



THE LETTERS. 



119 



To trample round my fallen head, 
And vex the unhappy dust tlion 
wouldst not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the 
plover cry ; 

But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy 
crime 
I care no longer, being all imblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but 1 am sick 
of Time, 
And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me 
where I lie : 
Go by, go by. 



THE LETTERS. 
1. 
Stii-l on the tower stood the vane, 
A black yew gloom'd the stagnant 
air, 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 
A band of pain across my brow ; 
"Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall 
meet 
Before you hear my marriage vow." 



I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song 

That mock'd the wholesome human 
heart. 
And then we met in wrath and wrong, 

We met, but only meant to part. 
Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 

She faintly smiled, she hardly 
moved ; 
I saw with half-unconscious eye 

She wore the colors I approved. 



She took the little ivory chest. 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key. 
Then raised her head with lips com- 
prest. 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could 
please ; 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 



She told me all her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar ; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead. 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 
" No more of love ; your sex is known : 

I never will be twice deceived. 
Henceforth I trust the man alone. 

The woman cannot be believed. 



" Thro' slander, meanest spawn of 
Hell — 

And women's slander is the worst, 
And you, whom once I lov'd so well. 

Thro' you, my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague 
alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 



We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars. 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue. 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars, 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile. 
So fresh they rose in shadow'd 
swells ; 
" Dark porch," I said, " and silent 
aisle, 
There comes a sound of marriage 
bells. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



I HAD a vision when the night was late : 
A youth came riding toward a palace- 
gate. 
He rode a horse with wings, that would 

have flown. 
But that his heavy rider kept him 

down. 
And from the palace came a child of 

sin, 
And took him by the curls, and led 

him in. 
Where sat a company with heated 

eyes. 
Expecting when a fountain should 

arise : 
A sleepy light upon their brows and 

lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse. 
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles 

and capes — 
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid 

shapes. 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, 

and piles of grapes. 



Then methought I heard a mellow 
sound. 

Gathering up from all the lower 
ground ; 

Narrowing in to where they sat assem- 
bled 

Low voluptuous music winding trem- 
bled, 

Wov'n in circles : they that heard it 
sigh'd. 



120 



THE VISION OF SLV. 



Panted hand-in-hand with faces pale, 
Swung themselves, and in low tones 

replied ; 
Till the fountain spouted, showering 

wide 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; 
Then the music touch'd the gates and 

died ; 
Rose again from wliere it seem'd to 

fail, 
Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing 

gale ; 
Till thronging in and in, to where thej' 

waited, 
As 'twere a hundred-throated nightin- 
gale, 
The strongtempestuous treble throbb'd 

and palpitated ; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles, 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid 

mazes. 
Flung the torrent rainbow round : 
Then they started from their places. 
Moved with violence, changed in Jiue, 
Cauglit each other with wild grimaces, 
Half-invisible to the view, 
Wheeling with jirecipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew. 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces. 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces. 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dasli'd together in blinding dew : 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
Tlie nerve-dissolving melody 
Flutter'd headlong from the sky. 



And then I look'd up toward a moun- 
tain-tract. 

That girt the region with high cliff and 
lawn : 

I saw that every morning, far with- 
drawn 

Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 

God made Himself an awful rose of 
dawn, 

Unheeded: and detaching, fold by fold. 

From those still heights, and, slowly 
drawing near, 

A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold. 

Came floating on for many a month 
and year. 

Unheeded : and I thouglit I woidd 
have spoken. 

And warn'd that madman ere it grew 
too late : 

But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine 
was broken. 

When that cold vapor touch'd the 
palace gate, 

And link'd again. I saw within my 
head 

A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean 
as death, 



Who slowly rode across a wither'd 

heath, 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said ■ 



" Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! 

Here is custom come your way ; 
Take my brute, and lead him in, 

Stutt^^ liis ribs with mouldy hay. 

"Bitter barmaid, waning fast! 

See that sheets are on my bed ; 
What ! tlie flower of life is past: 

It is long before you wed. 

" Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath ! 

Let us have a quiet hour. 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 

" I am old, but let me drink; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, when I think, 

That my youth was half divine. 

" Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, 
When a blanket wraps the day. 

When the rotten woodland drips, 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

" Sit thee down, and have no shame, 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : 

What care I for any name ? 
What for order or degree ? 

" Let me screw thee up a peg : 

Let me loose thy tongue with wine : 

Callest thou that thing a leg ? 

Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? 

" Tliou slialt not be saved hy works : 
Thou hast been a sinner too : 

Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks, 
Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before tlie morn ; 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

" We are men of ruin'd blood; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

" Name and fame ! to fly sublime 
Thro' the courts, the camps, the 
schools, 

Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied by the hands of fools. 

" Friendship ! — to be two in one — 
Let the canting liar pack ! 

Well I know, when I am gone, 
How she mouths behind my liaik 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



121 



" Virtue ! — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well, 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 

" O ! we two as well can look 
Whited thought and cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 

Have a rouse before the morn : 
Pvvery moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

" Drink, and let the parties rave : 
They are fill'd with idle spleen ; 

Rising, falling, like a wave. 

For they know not what they mean. 

" He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power; 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up. 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Greet her with applausive breath. 
Freedom, gayly doth she tread ; 

In lier right a civic wreath, 
In her left a human head. 

" No, I love not what is new ; 

She is of an ancient house : 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

" Let her go ! her thirst she slakes " 
Where the bloody conduit runs. 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 
Visions of a perfect State : 

Drink we, last, the public fool. 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

" Chant me now some wicked stave, 
Till thy drooping courage rise, 

And the glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

" Fear not thou to loose tliy tongue ; 

Set thy hoary fancies free ; 
What is loathsome to the young 

Savors well to thee and me. 

" Change, reverting to the years, 
When thy nerves could understand 

What there is in loving tears, 
And the warmth of hand in liand. 



" Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance ; 

Till the graves begin to move, 
And the dead begin to iance. 

"Fill the can, and fill the :;up: 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up. 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads: 

Welcome, fellow-citizens, 

Hollow hearts and empty heads ! 

" You are bones, and what ol, that "? 

Every face, however full, 
Padded round with fiesh and fat. 

Is but modell'd on a skull. 

" Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 

Tread a measure on the stones. 
Madam — if I know your sex, 

From the fashion of your bones. 

"No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet your lip : 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

" Lo ! God's likeness — the ground- 
plan — 
Neither modell'd, glazed, nor 
framed: 
Buss me, thou rough sketch of man. 
Far too naked to be shamed ! 

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath ! 

Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! 

" Thou art mazed, the night is long, 
And the longer night is near : 

What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, to all. 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup and fill the can : 
Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! 

Dregs of life, and lees of man : 
Yet we will not die forlorn." 



The voice grew faint : there came a 
further change : 

Once more uprosethemystic mountain- 
range : 

Below were men and horses pierced 
with worms, 

And slowly quickening into lower 
forms : 



122 



TO E. L., OA^ HIS TRAVELS TV GREECE. 



By shards and scurf of salt, and scum 

of dross, 
Old i^lash of rains, and refuse ijatch'd 

with moss. 
Then some one spake : " Behold ! it 

was a crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore 

with time." 
Another said : " Tlie crime of sense 

became 
The crime of malice, and is equal 

blame." 
And one : " He had not wliolly 

quench'd his power ; 
A little grain of conscience made him 

sour." 
At last I heard a voice upon the slope 
Cry to the summit, " Is there any 

hope ? " 
To which an answer peal'd from that 

high land. 
But in a tongue no man could under- 
stand ; 
And on the glimmering limit far with- 
drawn 
God made Himself an awful rose of 

dawn. 



TO , 

AJTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 

" Cursed be lie tliat moves my bones." 

Shakespeare'.'! Epitaph. 

YoL' might have won the Poet's name. 
If such be worth the winning now, 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice : 

And you have miss'd the irreverent 

doom 
• Of those that wear the Poet's crown : 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 
Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die, 
Nor leave his music as of old. 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 

"Proclaim the faults he would not 
show : 
Break lock and seal : betray the 

trust : 
Keep nothing sacred : 'tis but just 
The many-headed beast should know." 

Ah shameless ! for he did but sing 
A song that pleased us from its 
worth ; 



\o public life was his on earth, 
No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. 

He .gave the people of his best : 

His worst he kept, his best he gave. 
My Shakespeare's curse on clown 
and knave 

Who will not let liis ashes rest ! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier. 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree. 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his iieart before the crowd ! 



TO 



E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN 
GREECE. 



Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Peneian pass. 

The vast Akrokeraunian walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 
With such a pencil, such a pen, 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there : 



And trust me while I turn'd the page. 
And track'd you still on classic 

ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For nie the torrent ever pour'd 

And glisten'd — here and there alone 
The broad-limb'd Gods .at random 
thrown 

By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads oar'd 



A glimmering shoulder under gloom 
Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 
The silver lily heaved and fell ; 

And many a slope was rich in bloom 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks 
To him who sat upon the rocks. 

And fluted to the morning sea. 



Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could 
utter 

The thougiits that arise in me. 



THE POET'S SONG. 



123 



O well for the fisherman's boy, 

Tliat he shouts with his sister at 
play ! 

() well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven imder the hill ; 
But () for the touch of a vanish'd 
hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is 
still ! 



Break, break, break, 

At tlie foot of thy crags, < ) Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is 
dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE pop:t's song. 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 
He pass'd by the town and out of 
the street. 




■' Break, hrcirk, hreak, 

(hi tliij fiilil i/)tii/ xfoiips, Sen!' 



A light wind blew from the gates of 
tlie sun, 
And waves of sluidow went over tin- 
wheat. 
And he sat him down in a lonely i)lace. 
And clianted a melody loud and 
sweet, 
That made the wihl-swan pause in her 
cloud, 
And the hirk ih-oj) down at liis teet. 

Tlie swallow sto])t as lie hunted the 

bee, 
The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood with the down 

on his beak. 



Anil stared, with his foot on the 
prey, 
And tlie nightingale thouglit, " I have 
sung many songs, 
But never a one so gay. 
For he sings of what the world will be 
When the years have died away." 



THE BKOOK. 

Hekk, by tliis brook, we parted ; I to 

the East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late : 
( )ne whom tlie strong sons of the 

wt)rld despise ; 



124 



THE BROOK. 



For lucky rliymes to him were scrip 

and share, 
And mellow metres more than cent 

for cent ; 
Nor could he understand how money 

breeds, 
Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself 

could make 
Tlie thing that is not as the thing 

that is. 
( ) had he lived ! In our schoolbooks 

we say, 
( »f those that held their heads above 

the crowd, 



They flourish'd then or then ; but life 

in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only 

touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 
When all the wood stands in a mist 

of green. 
And nothing perfect : yet the brook 

he loved, 
For which, in branding summers of 

Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neil- 

gherry air 
I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, 




/ come from haunts of coot and hern." 



Prattling the primrose fancies of tlic 

hoy. 
To me that loved him; for " O brook," 

he says, 
"O babbling brook," says Edmund in 

his rhyme, 
' Whence come you '? " and the brook, 

why not ? replies. 

I come from haunts of coot ami hern, 

1 make a sudden tsally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills. I hurry down. 
Or slip between the ridges. 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 



Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

" Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite 
worn out. 

Travelling to Naples. There is Darn- 
ley bridge, 

It has more ivy ; there the river; and 
there 

Stands Philip's farm where brook and 
river meet. 



I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 



THE BROOK. 



125 



With many a curve my banks I frel 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
"With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

" But Philip chattor'd more than 
brook or bird ; 

Old Philip ; all about the fields you 
caught 

His weary daylong chirping, like the 
dry 

High-elbow'd grigs tliat leap in sum- 
mer grass. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silverj' waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

" O darling Katie Willows, his one 

child ! 
A maiden of our century, yet most 

meek ; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not 

coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel 

wand ; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when 

the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit 

within. 

" Sweet Katie, once I did her a good 
turn. 

Her and her far-off cousin and be- 
trothed, 

James Willows, of one name and 
heart with her. 

For here I came, twenty years back — 
the week 

Before I parted with i>oor Edmund ; 
crost 

By that old bridge which, half in 
ruins then, 

Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the 
gleam 

Beyond it, where the waters marry — 
crost, 

Whistling a random bar of Bonny 
Doon, 

And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. 
The gate, 

Half-parted from a weak and scolding 
hinge, 

Stuck; and he clamor'd from a case- 
ment, 'Run' 



To Katie somewhere in the walks 

below, 
' Run, Katie ! ' Katie never ran : she 

moved 
To meet me, winding under woodbine 

bowers, 
A little flutter'd, with her eyelids 

down. 
Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a 

boon. 

"What was it? less of sentiment 
than sense 

Had Katie ; not illiterate ; nor of those 

Who dabbling in the foinit of lictive 
tears. 

And nursed by mealy-mottth'd philan- 
thropies. 

Divorce the Feeling from her mate 
the Deed. 

"She told me. She and James had 

quarrell'd. Why ? 
What cause of quarrel ? None, she 

said, no cause ; 
James had no cause : but when I prest 

the cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering 

jealousies 
Which anger'd her. Who anger'd 

James ? I said. 
But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once 

from mine. 
And sketching with her slender pointed 

foot 
Some figure like a wizard ])entagram 
(_)n garden gravel, let my query pass 
Unclaim'd, in fltishing silence, till 1 

ask'd 
If James were coming. 'Coming 

every day,' 
She answer'd, ' ever longing to explain. 
But evermore her father came across 
With some long-winded tale, and broke 

him short ; 
And James departed vext with him 

and her.' 
How could I help her ? ' Would I — 

was it wrong ? ' 
(Claspt hands and that petitionary 

grace 
Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere 

she spoke) 
' would I take her father for one 

hour. 
For one half-hour, and let him talk to 

me!' 
And even while she spoke, I saw where 

James 
Made toward us, like a wader in the 

surf. 
Beyond the brook, waist-deep in 

meadow-sweet. 

" Katie, what I suffer'd for your 
sake ! 



126 



THE BROOK. 



For in I went, and call'd old Philip out 
To show the farm: full willingly he 

rose : 
He led me thro' tlie short sweet- 
smelling lanes 
Of his wheat-suburb, babbling as he 

went. 
He praised his land, his horses, his 

machines ; 
He praised his ploughs, liis cows, his 

hogs, his dogs ; 
He praised his liens, his geese, his 

guinea-hens ; 
His pigeons, who in session on their 

roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own 

deserts : 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat 

he XoctV. 
Her blind and shuddering pu^jpies, 

naming each, 
And naming those, Ms friends, for 

whom tliey were : 
Then crost the common into Darnley 

chase 
To show. Sir Arthur's deer. In copse 

and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech. 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and 

said : ~ 

' That was the foin--year-old I sold tlie 

Squire.' 
And there he told a long long-winded 

tale 
Of how the Squire had seen the colt 

at grass. 
And how it was the thing his daughter 

Avish'd, 
And liow he sent the bailiff to the 

farm 
To learn the price, and wliat the price 

lie ask'd, 
And how the bailiff swore that he was 

mad. 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter 

liung ; 
He gave them line : and five days after 

that 
He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 
Who then and there had offer'd some- 
thing more, 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter 

hung ; 
He knew the man ; the colt would fetch 

its price ; 
He gave them line : and how by chance 

at last 
(It might be May or April, he forgot, 
The last of April or the first of May) 
He found the bailiff riding by the 

farm. 
And, talking from the point, he drew 

him in. 
And there he mellow'd all his heart 

with ale. 



I'ntil they closed a bargain, hand in 
hand. 



" Then, while 1 breathed in sight of 
haven, he, 
I'oor fellow, could he help it ? recom- 
menced. 
And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle. 
Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, 

Tallyho, 
Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the 

Jilt, 
Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the 

rest, 
Till, not to die a listener, I arose, 
And with me Philip, talking still ; and 

so 
We turn'd our foreheads from the fall- 
ing sun, 
\\\i\. following our own shadows thrice 

as long- 
As when they follow'd us from Philip's 

door, 
Arrived, and found tll^e sun of sweet 

content 
Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things 
well. 



I Bteal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I Blide by hazel covers; 
I move tlie sweet fors;et-me-not8 

That sirow for hajjpy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted simbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 



I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses ; 

T linger by my shingly bars; 
I loiter round my cresses; 



And out again 1 curve and flow 
To. join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 



Yes, men may come and go ; and these 

are gone, 
All gone. My dearest brother, Ed- 
mund, sleeps. 
Not by the well-known stream and 

rustic spire'. 
But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 
< >f Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and 

he. 
Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of 

words 
Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb : 
I scraped the lichen from it : Katie 

walks 
By the long wash of Australasian seas 
Far off, and holds her head to other 

stars. 
And breathes in converse seasons. All 

are gone." 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



127 



So Lawrence Aylnier, seated on a 

stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his 

mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er 

the brook 
A tonsured head in middle age forlorn, 
Mused, and was mute. On a sudden 

a low breath 
Of tender air made tremble in the 

hedge 
The fragile bindweed-bells and briony 

rings ; 
And he look'd up. There stood a 

maiden near, 
Waiting to pass. In mucli nmnze he 

stared 



On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when 

the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit 

within : 
Then, wondering, ask'd her " Are you 

from the farm '? " 
" Yes," answer'd she. " Pray stay a 

little : pardon me ; 
What do they call youl" "Katie." 

" That were strange. 
What surname ? " " Willows." "No ! " 

"That is my name." 
" Indeed ! " and here he look'd so self- 

perplext. 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing 

blush'd, till he 




And out mjain I curve anil _/iou- 
To join thp brimming river." 



liaugh'd also, but as one before he 

wakes, 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness 

in his dream. 
Then looking at her ; " Too happy, 

fresh and fair, 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's 

best bloom, 
To be the ghost of one wlio bore your 

name 
About these meadows, twenty years 

ago." 

" Have you not heard ? " said Katie, 
" we came back. 

We bought the farm we tenanted be- 
fore. 

Am I so like her ? so they said on 
board. 



Sir. if you knew her in her English 
days, 

My mother, as it seems you did, the 
days 

That most she loves to talk of, come 
with me. 

Mv brother James is in the harvest- 
field : 

But she — you will be welcome — ( >, 
come in ! " 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 

1793. 
Dust are our frames ; and, gilded dust, 

our pride 
Looks only for a moment whole and 

sound ; 
Like that long-buried body of the king. 



128 



A YLMER'S FT ELD. 



Found lying with his urns and orna- 
ments, 

Which at a touch of light, an air of 
heaven, 

Slipt into ashes, and was found no 
more. 

Here is a story which in rougher 

shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, wlioni 

I saw 
Sunning himself in a waste field 

alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who 

had served, 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the 

place. 
And been himself a part of what he 

told. 

Sir Aylmer Aylmer, that al- 
mighty man. 
The county God — in whose capacious 

hall, 
Hung with a hundred shields, the 

family tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate 

king — 
"Whose blazing wyvern weatliercock'd 

the spire, 
Stood from his walls and wing'd liis 

entry-gates 
And SM'ang besides on many a windj- 

sign — 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal 

head 
Saw from his windows nothing save 

his own — 
What lovelier of his own had he than 

her. 
His only child, his Edith, whom he 

loved 
As heiress and not heir regretfully '? 
But " he that marries her marries her 

name " 
This fiat somewhat soothed himself 

and wife. 
His wife a faded beauty of the 

Baths, 
Insipid as the Queen upon a card ; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly 

more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 

A land of hops and poppy-mingled 

corn. 
Little about it stirring save a brook ! 
A sleepy land, where under the same 

wheel 
The same old rut would deepen year 

by year ; 
Where almost all the village liad one 

name ; 
Where Aylmer followed Aylmer at 

the Hall 
And Averill Averill at the Rectorv 



Thrice over ; so tliat Rectory and 

Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacy, 
Were ojien to each other; tho' to 

dream 
That Love could bind them closer well 

had made 
The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle 

up 
With horror, worse than had he heard 

his priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of 

men 
Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the 

land. 

And might not Averill, had he will'd 
it so. 

Somewhere beneath his own low range 
of roofs, 

Have also set his many-shielded tree? 

There was an Aylmer- Averill mar- 
riage once. 

When the red rose was redder than 
itself. 

And York's white rose as red as Lan- 
caster's, 

With wounded peace which each had 
prick'd to death. 

" Not proven " Averill said, or laugh- 
ingly 

"Some other race of Ave rills" — prov'n 
or no. 

What cared he ? what, if other or the 
same ? 

He lean'd not on his fathers but him- 
self. 

But Leolin, his brother, living oft 

Witli Averill, and a year or two before 

Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 

By one low voice to one dear neigh- 
borhood, 

Would often, in his walks with Edith, 
claim 

A distant kinship to the gracious blood 

That shook the heart of Edith hearing 
him. 



Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue 
Than of that islet in the chestnut- 
bloom 
Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, 

that still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, 

beam'd. 
Beneath a manelike mass of rolling 

gold. 
Their best and brightest, when they 

dwelt on hers, 
Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect 

else. 
But subject to the season or the mood. 
Shone like a mystic star between the 

less 
And greater glory varying to and fro. 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



129 



We know not wherefore ; bounteously 
made, 

And yet so finely, that a troublous 
touch 

Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in 
a day, 

A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 

And these had been together from the 
first. 

Leolin's first nurse was, five years 
after, hers : 

So much the boy foreran : but when 
his date 

Doubled her own, for want of play- 
mates, he 

(Since Averill was a decade and a half 

His elder, and their parents under- 
ground) 

Had tost his ball and flown his kite, 
and roU'd 

His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her 
dipt 

Against the rush of the air iia the 
prone swing, 

Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, ar- 
ranged 

Her garden, sow'd her name and kept 
it green 

In living letters, told her fairy-tales, 

Show'd her the fairy footings on the 
grass, 

The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, 

The petty marestail forest, fairy 
pines. 

Or from the tiny pitted target blew 

What look'd a flight of fairy arrows 
aim'd 

All at one mark, all hitting: make- 
believes 

For Edith and himself : or else he 
forged. 

But that was later, boyish histories 

Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, 
wreck. 

Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and 
true love 

Crown'd after trial ; sketches rude and 
faint. 

But where a passion yet unborn per- 
haps 

Lay hidden as the music of the moon 

Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightin- 
gale. 

And thus together, save for college- 
times 

Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 

As ever jiainter painted, poet sang, 

Or Heaven in lavish bounty moulded, 
grew. 

And more and more, the maiden 
woman-grown. 

He wasted hours with Averill; there, 
when first 

The tented winter-field was broken up 

Into that phalanx of the summer 
spears 



That soon should wear the garland ; 
there again 

When burr and bine were gather'd ; 
lastly there 

At Christmas ; ever welcome at the 
Hall, 

On whose dull sameness his full tide 
of youth 

Broke with a phosijhorescence charm- 
ing even 

My lady ; and the Baronet yet had 
laid 

No bar between them : dull and self- 
involved. 

Tall and erect, but bending from liis 
height 

With half -allowing smiles for all the 
M'orld, 

And mighty courteous in the main • — 
his j)ride 

Lay deeper than to wear it as his 
ring — 

He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, 

Would care no more for Leolin's walk- 
ing with her 

Thanfor his oldXewfoumlland's, when 
they ran 

To loose him at the stables, for he 
rose 

Two footed at the limit of his chain, 

Roaring to make a third : and how 
should Love, 

Whom the cross-lightnings of four 
chance-met eyes 

Flash into fiery life from nothing, 
follow 

Such dear familiarities of dawn i 

Seldom, but when he does, Master of 
all. 

So these young hearts not knowing 

that they loved. 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a 

bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broken 

ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, and oft accompanied 
By Averill : his, a brother's love, that 

hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er 

her peace. 
Might have been other, save for 

Leolin's — 
Who knows? but so they wander'd, 

hour by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, 

and drank 
The magic cup that filled itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to her- 
self. 

For out beyond her lodges, where the 
brook 

Vocal, with here and there a silence, 
ran 



130 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' 

homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low 

knolls 
That dimplin^r died into each other, 

huts 
At random scatter'd, each a nest in 

bloom. 
Her art, her liand, her counsel all had 

wrought 
About them • liere was one that, sum- 

mer-blancli'd. 
Was parcel-bearded witli the trav- 

• ellcr's joy 
In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad ; and 

here 
The warm-blue breathings of a liidden 

hearth 
Broke from a bower of vine and 

honeysuckle : 
One look'd all rosetree, and another 

wore 
A close-set robe of jasmine sown 

with stars : 
This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 
About it; this, a milky-way on earth. 
Like visions in the Northern dreamer's 

heavens, 
A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ; 
One, almost to the martin-haunted 

eaves 
A summer burial deep in hollyhocks; 
Each, its own charm ; and Edith's 

everywhere ; 
And Edith ever visitant with him. 
He but less loved than Edith, of her 

poor : 
For she — so lowly-lovely and so 

loving, 
Queenly responsive when the loyal 

hand 
Hose from the clay it work'd in as she 

past. 
Not sowing hedgerow texts and pass- 
ing by, 
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a 

height 
That makes the lowest hate it, but a 

voice 
Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
A splendid presence flattering the 

poor roofs 
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than 

themselves 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
( )r old bedridden palsy, — was adored ; 
lie, loved for her and for himself. 

A grasp 
Having the warmth and muscle of 

the heart, 
A childly way with children, and a 

laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage 

true. 
Were no false passport to that easy 

realm, 



Where once with Leolin at her side 
the girl. 

Nursing a child, and turning to the 
warmth 

The tender pink five-beaded baby- 
soles, 

Heard the good mother softly whis- 
per " Bless, 

God bless 'em : marriagas are made 
in Heaven." 

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it 
to her. 
My lady's Indian kinsman unan- 
nounced 
With half a score of swarthy faces 

came. 
His own, tho' keen and bold and sol- 
dierly, 
Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not 

fair; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled 

the hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful : so when first 

he dash'd 
Into the chronicle of a deedful day, 
Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 
Of patron " Good ! my lady's kins- 
man ! good ! " 
My lady with her fingers interlock'd. 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen : unawares they flitted off. 
Busying themselves about the flow- 
era ge 
That stood from out a stiff brocade 

in which. 
The meteor of a splendid season, she. 
Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, 
Stept thro' the stately minuet of those 

days : 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with 

him 
Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of 

his life : 
Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye. 
Hated him with a momentary hate. 
Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was 

he: 
I know not, for he spoke uot, only 

shower'd 
His oriental gifts on everyone 
And most on Edith : like a storm he 

came. 
And shook the house, and like a 
storm he went. 

Among the gifts he left her (jiossibly 
He flow'd and ebb'd imcertain, to 

return 
When otliers had been tested) there 

was one, 
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels 

on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd 

itself 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



131 



Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not 

wliencc at first, 
Nor of what race, the work ; but as he 

tokl 
The story, storming a hill-fort of 

thieves. 
He got it; for their captain after fight, 
His comraides having fought their 

last below, 
Was climbing up the valley ; at whom 

he shot : 
Down from the beetling crag to which 

he clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet. 
This dagger with him, which when 

now admired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to 

please, 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to 

her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was 

gone. 
Tost over all her presents petulantly : 
And when she show'd the wealthy 

scabbard, saying 
" Look what a lovely piece of work- 
manship ! " 
Slight was his anwser "Well — 1 care 

not for it" : 
Then playing with the blade he 

prick'd his hand, 
" A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! " 
" But would it be more gracious " 

ask'd the girl 
" Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is no lady ? " " Gracious "? No " 

said he. 
"Me?— but I cared not for it. O 

jiardon me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself." 
"Take it" she added sweetly, " tho' 

his gift ; 
For I am more ungracious ev'n than 

you, 
I care not for it either " ; and he said 
" Why then I love it " : but Sir Aylmer 

past. 
And neither loved nor liked the thing 
* he heard. 

The next day came a neighbor. 

Blues and reds 
They talk'd of ; blues were sure of it, 

he thought : 
Then of the latest fox — where started 

— kill'd 
In such a bottom : " Feter had the 

brush, 
My Peter, first " : and did Sir Aylmer 

know 
That great pock-pitten fellow had 

been caught ? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to 

hand. 



And rolling as it were the substance 

of it 
Between his palms a moment up and 

down — 
" The birds were warm, the birds were 

warm upon him ; 
We have him now": and had Sir 

Aylmer heard — 
Nay, but he must — the land was 

ringing of it — 
Tliis blacksmith border-marriage — 

one they knew^ — 
Raw from tlie nursery — who could 

trust a child ? 
That cursed France with her egalities ! 
And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 
With nearing chair and lowcr'd ac- 
cent) think — 
For people talk'd — that it was wholly 

wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averill 

walk 
So freely with his daughter ? people 

talk'd — 
The boy might get a notion into 

him ; 
The girl might Ije entangled ere she 

knew. 
Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening 

spoke : 
" The girl and boy. Sir, know their 

differences ! " 
" Good," said liis friend, " but watch ! " 

and he, " Enough, 
More than enough. Sir ! I can guard 

my own." 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer 

watch'd. 

Fale, for on her the thunders of the 

house 
Had fallen first, was Edith that same 

night; 
Bale as the Jejihtha's daughter, a 

rough piece 
Of early rigid color, under which 
Withdrawing by the counter door to 

that 
Which Leolin open'd, she cast back 

upon him 
A piteous glance, and vanish 'd. He, 

as one 
Caught in a burst of unexpected 

storm. 
And pelted with outrageous e])i- 

thets. 
Turning beheld the Powers of tlu' 

House 
On either side the hearth, indignant ; 

her. 
Cooling her false cheek with a feather- 
fan. 
Him, glaring, by his own stale devil 

spurr'd, 
And, like a beast hard-ridden, breatl.- 

ing hard. 



132 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



" Ungenerous, dishonorable, base, 
Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with 

her. 
The sole succeeder to their wealth, 

their lands, 
The last remaining pillar of their 

house. 
The one transmitter of their ancient 

name, 
Their child." "Our child!" "Our 

heiress ! " " (_)urs ! " for still, 
Like echoes from beyond a hollow, 

came 
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said, 
" Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes 

are to make. 
I swear you shall not make them out 

of mine. 
Now inasmuch as you have practised 

on her, 
Perplext her, made her half forget 

herself. 
Swerve from her duty to herself and 

us — 
Things in an Aylmcr deem'd impos- 
sible. 
Far as we track ourselves — I say 

that this — 
Else I withdraw favor and counte- 
nance 
From you and yours forever — shall 

you do. 
Sir, when you see her — but j^ou shall 

not see her — 
No, you shall write, and not to her, 

but me : 
And you shall say that having spoken 

with me, 
And after look'd into yourself, you 

find 
That you meant nothing — as indeed 

you know 
That you meant nothing. Such a 

match as this ! 
Impossible, prodigious ! " These were 

words, 
As meted bj' his measure of him- 
self, 
Arguing boundless forbearance : after 

which, 
And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, 

"I 
So foul a traitor to myself and her, 
Never oh never," for about as long 
As the wind-hover hangs in balance, 

paused 
Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm 

within. 
Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and 

crying 
" Boy, should I find you by my doors 

again, 
My men shall lash you from them like 

a dog; 
Hence ! " with a sudden execration 

drove 



The footstool from before him, and 

arose ; 
So, stammering " scoundrel " out of 

teeth that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin 

still 
Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old 

man 
Follow'd, and under his 'own lintel 

stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary 

face 
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, 

but now. 
Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd 

moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness, and 

deform 'd. 

Slowly and conscious of the ragef ul 

eye 
That watch'd him, till he heard the 

ponderous door 
Close, crashing with long echoes thro' 

the land, 
Went Leolin ; then, his passions all 

in flood 
And masters of his motion, furiously 
Down thro' the bright lawns to his 

brother's ran. 
And foam'd away his heart at Aver- 

ill's ear : 
Whom Averill solaced as he might, 

amazed : 
The man was his, had been his fath- 
er's, friend: 
He must have seen, himself had seen 

it long ; 
He must have known, himself had 

known: besides, 
He never yet had set his daughter 

forth 
Here in the woman-markets of the 

west, 
Where our Caucasians let themselves 

be sold. 
Some one, he thought, had slander'd 

Leolin to him. 
" Brother, for I have loved you more 

as son 
Than brother, let me tell you : I my- 
self— 
What is their pretty saying "? jilted, 

is it? 
Jilted I was : I say it for your peace. 
Fain'd, and, as bearing in myself the 

shame 
The woman should have borne, humili- 
ated, 
I lived for years a stunted sunless life ; 
Till after our good parents past away 
Watching your growth, I seem'd again 

to grow. 
Leolin, I almost sin in envying you : 
The very whitest lamb in all my 

fold 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



133 



Loves you : I know her : the worst 

thought she has 
Is whiter even than her pretty hand : 
She must prove true : for, brother, 

where two fight 
The strongest wins, and truth and love 

are strengtli, 
And you are happy : let her parents 

be." 

But Leolin cried out the more upon 
them — 

Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, 
wealth. 

Their wealth, their heiress ! wealth 
enough was theirs 

For twenty matclies. Were lie lord 
of this, 

Whj^ twenty boys and girls should 
marry on it. 

And forty blest ones bless him, and 
himself 

Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He 
believed 

This filthy marriage-hindering Mam- 
mon made 

The harlot of the cities : nature crost 

Was mother of the foul adulteries 

That saturate soul with body. Name, 
too ! name, 

Their ancient name ! they mujht be 
proud ; its worth 

Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she 
had look'd 

Darling, to-night! they must have 
rated her 

Beyond all tolerance. These old 
pheasant-lords, 

These partridge-breeders of a thou- 
sand years, 

Who had mildew'd in their thousands, 
doing nothing 

Since Egbert — why, the greater their 
disgrace ! 

Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in 
that ! 

Not keep it noble, make it nobler ? 
fools, 

With such a vantage-ground for noble- 
ness ! 

He had known a man, a quintessence 
of man. 

The life of all — who madly loved — 
and he. 

Thwarted by one of these old father- 
fools. 

Had rioted his life out, and made an 
end. 

He would not do it ! her sweet face 
and faith 

Held him from that : but he had pow- 
ers, he knew it : 

Back would he to his studies, make a 
name. 

Name, fortune too : the world should 
ring of him 



To shame these mouldy Aylmers in 

their graves : 
Chancellor, or what is greatest would 

he be — 
" brother, I am grieved to learn 

your grief — 
Give me my fling, and let me say my 

say." 

At which, like one that sees his own 

excess. 
And easily forgives it as his own. 
He laugh'd ; and then was mute ; but 

presently 
Wept like a storm : and honest Averill 

seeing 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, 

fetch'd 
His richest beeswing from a binn re- 
served 
For banquets, praised the waning red, 

and told 
The vintage — when this Aylmer came 

of age — 
Then drank and past it ; till at length 

the two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, 

agreed 
That nmch allowance must be made 

for men. 
After an angry dream this kindlier 

glow 
Faded witli morning, but his purpose 

held. 

Yet once by night again the lovers 

met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall pines 
That darken'd all the northward of 

her Hall. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom 

I^rest 
In agony, she promised that no force. 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter 

her: 
He, passionately hopefuUer, would go. 
Labor for his own Edith, and return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 
He should not be rejected. " Write to 

me ! 
They loved me, and because I love 

their child 
They hate me : there is war between 

us, dear. 
Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we 

must remain 
Sacred to one another." So they 

talk'd. 
Poor children, for their comfort: the 

wind blew ; 
The rain of heaven, and their own 

bitter tears. 
Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, 

mixt 
Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each 

other 



134 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



In darkness, and above them roar'd 
the pine. 

So Leolin went ; and as we task our- 
selves 

To learn a language known but smat- 
teringly 

In phrases here and there at random, 
toil'd 

Mastering the lawless science of our 
law. 

That codeless myriad of precedent, 

That wilderness of single instances. 

Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune 
led, 

May beat a pathway out to wealth and 
fame. 

The jests, thatflash'd about the plead- 
er's room, 

Lightning of the hour, the pun, the 
scurrilous tale, — 

Old scandals buried now seven decades 
deep 

In other scandals that have lived and 
died. 

And left the living scandal that shall 
die — 

Were dead to him already ; bent as lie 
was 

To make disproof of scorn, and strong 
in hopes. 

And prodigal of all brain-labor he, 

Charier of sleep, and wine, and exer- 
cise. 

Except when for a breathing-while at 
eve, 

Some niggard fraction of an hour, he 
ran 

Beside the river-bank : and then indeed 

Harder the times were, and the hands 
of power 

Were bloodier, and the according 
hearts of men 

Seem'd harder too ; but the soft river- 
breeze, 

Which f ann'd the gardens of that rival 
rose 

Yet fragrant in a heart remembering 

His former talks with Edith, on him 
breathed 

Far purelier in his rushings to and 
fro. 

After his books, to flush his blood with 
air, 

Then to his books again. My lady's 
cousin, 

Half-sickening of his pension'd after- 
noon, 

Drove in upon the student once or 
twice, 

Ran a Malayan amuck against the 
times, 

Had golden hopes for France and all 
mankind, 

Answer'd all queries touching those at 
home 



With a heaved shoulder and a saucy 

smile, 
And fain had haled him out into the 

world. 
And air'd him there : his nearer friend 

would say 
" Screw not the chord too sharply lest 

it snap." 
Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger 

forth 
From where his worldless heart had 

kept it warm, 
Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. 
And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of 

liim 
Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : 
For heart, 1 think, help'd head : her 

letters too, 
Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 
Like broken music, written as she 

found 
Or mjule occasion, being strictly 

watcli'd, 
Charm 'd him thro' every labyrinth till 

he saw 
An end, a hope, a light breaking upon 

him. 

But they that cast her spirit into 

flesh, 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued 

themselves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her 

good. 
AVhatever eldest-born of rank or 

wealth 
Might lie within their compass, him 

they lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the 

baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. 
So month by month the noise about 

their doors, 
And distant blaze of those dull ban- 
quets, made 
The nightly wirer of their innocent 

hare 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the folly taking wings 
Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the 

wind 
With rumor, and became in otlier fields 
A mockery to the yeomen over ale, 
And laughter to their lords : but those 

at home. 
As hunters round a hunted creature 

draw, 
The cordon close and closer toward 

the death, 
Narrow'd her goings out and comings 

in ; 
Forbade her first the house of Averill, 
Then closed her access to the wealthier 

farms, 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



135 



Last from her own home-circle of the 
poor 

They barr'd her : yet she bore it : yet 
her cheek 

Kept color : wondrous ! but, O mystery ! 

What amulet drew her down to that 
old oak, 

So old, that twenty years before, a 
part 

Falling had let appear the brand of 
John — 

Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, 
but now 

The broken base of a black tower, a 
cave 

Of touchwood, with a single flourish- 
ing spray. 

There the manorial lord too curiously 

Raking in that millennial touchwood- 
dust 

Found for himself a bitter treasure- 
trove ; 

Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and 
read 

Writhing a letter from his child, for 
which 

Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, 

A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to 

fly, 

But scared with threats of jail and 
halter gave 

To him that fluster'd his poor parish 
wits 

Tlie letter which lie brought, and swore 
besides 

To play their go-between as heretofore 

Nor let them know themselves be- 
tray'd ; and then, 

Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, 
went 

Hating his own lean heart and miser- 
able. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot 

dream 
The father panting woke, and oft, as 

dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his 

elms, 
Sweejiing the frothfly from the fescue 

brush'd 
Thro' the dim meadow toward his 

treasure-trove, 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, 

— who made 
A downward crescent of her minion 

mouth. 
Listless in all despondence, — read ; 

and tore. 
As if the living passion symbol'd tliere 
Were living nerves to feel the rent; 

and burnt, 
Now chafing at his own great self 

defied. 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks 

of scorn 



In babyisms, and dear diminutives 
Scatter'd all over the vocabulary 
Of such a love as like a chidden child, 
After mucli wailing, hush'd itself at 

last 
Hopeless of answer: then tho' Averill 

wrote 
And bade liim with good heart sustain 

himself - — 
All would be well — the lover heeded 

not, 
But passionately restless came and 

went, 
And rustling once at night about the 

place. 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly 

hurt, 
Raging return'd : nor was it well for her 
Kept to the garden now, and grove of 

pines, 
Watch'd even there ; and one was set 

to watch 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd 

them all. 
Yet bitterer from his readings : once 

indeed, 
AVarm'd with his wines, or taking pride 

in her. 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her 

tenderly 
Not knowing wliat possess'd him : 

that one kiss 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon 

earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit, 
Seem'd liope's returning rose : and 

then ensued 
X Martin's summer of his faded love, 
(Jr ordeal by kindness ; after this 
He seldom crost his child without a 

sneer ; 
The mother flow'd in shallower acrimo- 
nies : 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly 

word : 
So that tlie gentle creature shut from 

all 
Her charitable use, and face to face 
With twenty months of silence, slowiy 

lost 
Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on 

life. 
Last, some low fever ranging round 

to spy 
The weakness of a people or a house. 
Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, 

or men. 
Or almost all that is, hurting the 

hurt — 
Save Christ as we believe him — found 

the girl 
And flung lier down upon a couch of 

fire. 
Where careless of the household faces 

near, 
And crying upon the name of Leolin, 



136 



AYLMERS FIELD. 



She, and with her the race of Aylmer, 
past. 

Star to star vibrates light : may 

soul to soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her 

own? 
So, — from afar, — touch as at once % 

or why 
That night, that moment, when she 

named his name, 
Did the keen shriek " Yes love, yes, 

Edith, yes," 
Shrill, till the comrade of his cham- 
bers woke. 
And came upon hira half-arisen from 

sleep, 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and 

trembling. 
His hair as it were crackling into 

flames, 
His body half flung forward in pursuit, 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp 

a flyer : 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made 

the cry ; 
And being much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day. 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing 

in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from 

home, 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with 

death 
Beside him, and the dagger whicli him- 
self 
Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's 

blood : 
" From Edith " was engraven on the 

blade. 

Then Averill went and gazed upon 

his death. 
And when he came again, his flock 

believed — 
Beholding how the years which are 

not Time's 
Had blasted him — that many thou- 
sand days 
Were dipt by horror from his term 

of life. 
Yet the sad mother, for the second 

death 
Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness 

of the first. 
And being used to find her pastor 

texts. 
Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying 

him 
To speak before the people of her 

child, 
And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that 

day rose : 
Autumn's mock sunsliine of the faded 

woods 



Was all the life of it; for hard on 

these, 
A breathless burthen of low-folded 

heavens 
Stifled and chill'd at once ; but every 

roof 
Sent out a listener : many too had 

known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and 

since 
The parents' harshness and the hap- 
less loves 
And double death were widely mur- 

mur'd, left 
Their own gray tower, or plain-faced 

tabernacle, 
To hear him ; all in mourning these, 

and those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, 

glove 
Or kerchief ; while the church, — one 

night, except 
For greenish glimmerings tiiro' the 

lancets, — made 
Still paler the pale head of him, who 

tower'd 
Above them, with his hopes in either 

grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd 

Averill, 
His face magnetic to the hand from 

which 
Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd 

thro' 
His brief prayer-prelude, gave the 

verse " Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ! " 
But lapsed into so long a pause 

again 
As half amazed half frighted all liis 

flock: 
Then from his height and loneliness 

of grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his 

angry heart 
Against the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became 
one sea. 

Which rolling o'er the palaces of the 
proud. 

And all but those who knew the liv- 
ing God — 

Eight that were left to make a purer 
world — 

When since had flood, fire, earthquake, 
thunder, wrought 

Such waste and havoc as the idola- 
tries. 

Which from the low light of mortality 

Shot up their shadows to the Heaven 
of Heavens, 

And worshipt their own darkness as 
the Highest ? 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



137 



" Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy 

brute Baiil, 
And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself. 
For with thy worst self hast thou 

clotlied thy God. 
Then came a Lord in no wise like to 

Baal. 
The babe shall lead tlie lion. Surely 

now 
The wilderness shall blossom as the 

rose. 
Crown thyself, worm, and worship 

thine own lusts ! — 
No coarse and blockish God of acreage 
Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel 

to — 
Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 
And princely halls, and farms, and 

flowing lawns. 
And heaps of living gold that daily 

grow. 
And title-scrolls and gorgeous heral- 
dries. 
In such a shape dost thou behold thy 

God. 
Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for Idm; 

for thine 
Fares richlj', in fine linen, not a hair 
Euffled upon the scarfskin, even while 
The deathless ruler of thy dying house 
Is wounded to the death that cannot 

die ; 
And tho' thou numberest with the 

followers 
Of One who cried, 'Leave all and fol- 
low me.' 
Thee therefore with His light about 

thy feet. 
Thee with His message ringing in thine 

ears. 
Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord 

from Heaven, 
Born of a village girl, carpenter's son. 
Wonderful, Prince of peace, the 

Mighty God, 
Count the more base idolater of the 

two ; 
Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire 
Bodies, but souls — thy children's — 

thro' the smoke. 
The blight of low desires — darkening 

thine own 
To thine own likeness; or if one of 

those. 
Thy better born unhappily from thee. 
Should, as by miracle, grow straight 

and fair — 
Friends, I was bid to speak of such a 

one 
By those who most have cause to sor- 
row for her — 
Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well. 
Fairer than Ruth among the fields of 

corn, 
Fair as the angel that said ' Hail ! ' 

she seem'd, 



Who entering fill'd the house with 

sudden light. 
For so mine own was brighten'd : 

where indeed 
The roof so lowly but that beam of 

Heaven 
Dawn'd sometime thro' the doorway ? 

whose the babe 
Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 
Warm'd at her bosom ? The poor 

child of shame 
The common care whom no one cared 

for, leapt 
To greet her, -wasting his forgotten 

heart, 
As with the mother ho had never 

known, 
In gambols ; for her fresh and inno- 
cent ej^es 
Had such a star of morning in their 

blue, 
That all neglected places of the 

field 
Broke into natiu'e's music when they 

saw her. 
Low was her voice, but won mysteri- 
ous way 
Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder 

one 
Was all but silence — free of alms 

lier hand — 
The hand that robed your cottage- 
walls with flowers 
Has often toil'd to clothe your little 

ones ; 
How often jjlaced upon the sick man's 

brow 
Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow 

smooth ! 
Had you one sorrow and she shared 

it not ? 
One burthen and she would not lighten 

it 7 
One spiritiial doubt she did not soothe ? 
Or when some heat of difference 

sparkled out, 
How sweetly would she glide between 

your wraths. 
And steal you from each other ! for 

she walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord 

of love, 
Who still'd the rolling wave of 

Galilee ! 
And one — of him I was not bid to 

speak — 
Was always with her, whom j'ou also 

knew. 
Him too j'^ou loved, for he was worthy 

love. 
And these had been together from the 

first; 
They might have been together till 

the last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when 

sorelv tried. 



138 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



May wreck itself without the pilot's 

guilt, 
Without the captain's knowledge : 

hope with me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went 

hence with shame ? 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of 

these 
I cry to vacant chairs and widow'd 

walls, 
' My house is left unto me desolate.' " 

While thus he spoke, his hearers 
wept ; but some, 

Sons of the glebe, with other frowns 
than those 

That knit themselves for summer 
shadow, scowl'd 

At their great lord. He, when it 
seem'd lie saw 

No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, 
but fork'd 

Of the near storm, and aiming at his 
head, 

Sat anger-charra'd from sorrow, sol- 
dier-like, 

Erect: but when the preacher's ca- 
dence flow'd 

Softening thro' all the gentle attri- 
butes 

Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd 
his face, 

Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron 
mouth ; 

And " O pray God that he hold up " 
she thought 

" Or surely I shall shame myself and 
him." 

"Nor yours the blame — for who 

beside your hearths 
Can take her place — if echoing me 

you cry 
' Our house is left unto us desolate ' ? 
But thou, thou that killest, hadst 

thou known, 
O thou that stonest, hadst thou under- 
stood 
The things belonging to thy peace 

and ours ! 
Is there no prophet but the voice that 

calls 
Doom upon kings, or in the waste 

' Repent ' "? 
Is not our own child on the narrow 

way, 
Who down to those that saimter in 

the broad 
Cries ' Come up hither,' as a prophet 

to us? 
Is there no stoning save with flint 

and rock 1 
Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — 
No desolation but by sword and fire ? 
Yes, as your moanings witness, and 

myself 



Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my 
loss. 

Give me your prayers, for he is past 
your prayers. 

Not past the living fount of pity in 
Heaven. 

But I that thought myself long-suffer- 
ing, meek. 

Exceeding ' poor in spirit ' — how the 
words 

Have twisted back upon themselves, 
and mean 

Vileness, we are grown so proud — I 
wish'd my voice 

A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 

To blow these sacrifices thro' the 
M'orld — 

Sent like the twelve-divided concubine 

To inflame the tribes : but there — 
out yonder — earth 

Lightens from her own central Hell 
— there 

The red fruit of an old idolatry — 

The heads of chiefs and princes fall 
so fast, 

They cling together in the ghastly 
sack — 

The land all shambles — naked mar- 
riages 

Flash from the bridge, and ever-mur- 
der'd France, 

By shores that darken with the gath- 
ering wolf. 

Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea. 

Is this a time to madden madness then ? 

Was this a time for these to flaunt 
their pride 1 

May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as 
dense as those 

Which hid the Holiest from the peo- 
ple's eyes 

Ere the great death, shroud this great 
sin from all ! 

Doubtless our narrow world must 
canvass it : 

rather pray for those and pity them, 

Who, thro' their own desire accom- 
plish'd, bring 

Their own gray hairs with sorrow to 
the grave — 

Who broke the bond which they 
desired to break. 

Which else had link'd their race with 
times to come — 

Who wove coarse webs to snare her 
purity. 

Grossly contriving their dear daugh- 
ter's good — 

Poor souls, and knew not what they 
did, but sat 

Ignorant, devising their own daugh- 
ter's death ! 

May not that earthly chastisement 
suffice ? 

Have not our love and reverence left 
them bare ? 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



139 



"Will not another take their heritage ? 
Will there be children's laughter in 

their hall 
For ever and for ever, or one stone 
Left on another, or is it a light thing 
That I, their guest, their host, their 

ancient friend, 
I made by these the last of all my 

race, 
Must cry to these the last of theirs, as 

cried 
Christ ere His agony to those that 

swore 
Not by tlie temple but the gold, and 

made 
Their own traditions God, and slew 

the Lord, 
And left their memories a world's 

curse — ' Behold, 
Your house is left unto you deso- 
late ' ? " 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd 

no more : 
Long since her heart had beat remorse- 
lessly, 
Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and 

a sense 
Of meanness in her unresisting life. 
Then their eyes vext her ; for on en- 
tering 
He had cast the curtains of their seat 

aside — 
Black velvet of the costliest — she 

herself 
Had seen to that : fain had she closed 

them now, 
Yet dared not stir to do it, only 

near'd 
Her husband inch by inch, but when 

she laid, 
Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he 

veil'd 
His face with the other, and at once, 

as falls 
A creeper when the prop is broken, 

fell 
The woman shrieking at his feet, and 

swoon'd. 
Then her own people bore along the 

nave 
Her pendent hands, and narrow mea- 
gre face 
Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty 

years : 
And her the Lord of all the landscape 

round 
Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, foUow'd 

out 
Tall and erect, but in the middle 

aisle 
Reel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded 

ways 
Stumbling across the market to his 

death. 



Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and 

soem'd 
Always about to fall, grasping the 

pews 
And oaken finials till he touch'd the 

door; 
Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot 

stood. 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect 

again. 

But nevermore did either pass the 

gate 
Save under pall with bearers. In one 

month, 
Thro' weary and yet ever wearier 

hours. 
The childless mother went to seek her 

child ; 
And when he felt the silence of his 

house 
Abouf him, and the change and not 

the change. 
And those fixt eyes of painted ances- 
tors 
Staring for ever from their gilded 

walls 
On him their last descendant, his own 

head 
Began to droop, to fall ; the man be- 
came 
Lnbecile ; his one word was " deso- 
late " ; 
Dead for two years before his death 

was he ; 
But when the second Christmas came, 

escaped 
His keepers, and the silence which he 

felt. 
To find a deeper in the narrow 

gloom 
By wife and chUd ; nor wanted at his 

end 
The dark retinue reverencing death 
At golden thresholds ; nor from tender 

hearts. 
And those who sorrow'd o'er a van- 

ish'd race. 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's 

grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken 

do\vn. 
And the broad woodland parcell'd into 

farms ; 
And wliere the two contrived their 

daughter's good. 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has 

made his run. 
The hedgehog underneath the plan- 
tain bores, 
The rabbit fondles his own harmless 

face. 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin 

weasel there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open 

field. 



140 



SEA DREAMS. 



SEA DREAMS. 

A CITY clerk, but gently born and 
bred; 

His wife, an unknoMoi artist's orphan 
child — 

One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three 
years old : 

They, thinking that her clear ger- 
mander eye 

Droopt in the giant-factoried city- 
gloom. 

Came, with a month's leave given 
them, to the sea : 

For which his gains were dock'd, how- 
ever small : 

Small were his gains, and hard liis 
work ; besides, 

Their slender household fortunes (for 
the man 

Had risk'd his little) like the" little 
thrift, 

Trembled in perilous places o'er a 
deej) : 

And oft, when sitting all alone, his 
face 

Would darken, as he cursed his credu- 
lousness. 

And that one unctuous mouth which 
lured him, rogue, 

To buy strange shares in some Peru- 
vian mine. 

Now seaward-bound for health they 
gain'd a coast. 

All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning 
cave, 

At close of day ; slept, woke, and 
went the next, 

The Sabbath, pious variers from the 
church. 

To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer. 

Not preaching simple Christ to simple 
men. 

Announced tlie coming doom, and ful- 
minated 

Against the scarlet woman and her 
creed ; 

For sideways up he swung his arms, 
and shi-iek'd 

" Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if 
he held 

The Apocalyptic millstone, and him- 
self 

"Were that great Angel ; " Thus with 
violence 

Shall Babylon be cast into the sea ; 

Then comes the close." The gentle- 
hearted wife 

Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ; 

He at his own : but when the wordy 
storm 

Had ended, forth they came and paced 
the shore, 

Ran in and out the long sea-framing 
caves, 



Drank the large air, and saw, but 

scarce believed 
(The sootflake of so many a summer 

still 
Clung to their fancies) that they saw, 

the sea. 
So now on sand they walk'd, and now 

on cliff. 
Lingering about the thymy promon- 
tories. 
Till all the sails M^ere darken'd in tlie 

west. 
And rosed in the east : then homeward 

and to Ijed : 
Where she, who kept a tender Chris- 
tian hope. 
Haunting a holj' text, and still to that 
Eeturning, as the bird returns, at 

night, 
" Let not the sun go down upon your 

wratli," 
Said, " Love, forgive him " : but he 

did not speak ; 
And silenced by that silence lay the 

wife, 
Eemembering her dear Lord who died 

for all. 
And musing on the little lives of men. 
And how they mar tliis little by their 

feuds. 

But while the two were sleeping, a 

full tide 
Rose with ground-swell, whicli, on the 

foremost rocks 
Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild 

sea-smoke. 
And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, 

and fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 
Dead claps of thunder from within 

the cliffs 
Heard tlu-o' the living roar. At this 

the babe. 
Their Margaret cradled near them, 

wail'd and woke 
The motlier, and the father suddenly 

cried, 
" A wreck, a wreck ! " then turn'd, and 

groaning said, 

" Forgive ! How many will say, ' for- 
give,' and find 

A sort of absolution in the sound 

To hate a little longer ! No ; the sin 

That neither God nor man can well 
forgive. 

Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 

Is it so true that second thoughts are 
best? 

Not first, and third, which are a riper 
first? 

Too ripe, too late ! they come too late 
for use. 

Ah love, there surely lives in man and 
beast 



SEA DREAMS. 



141 



Something divine to warn them of 

their foes : 
And such a sense, when first I fronted 

him, 
Said, 'Trust him not'; but after, 

wlien I came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew liim 

less; 
Fought with what seem'd my own 

uncliarity ; 
Sat at his table ; drank liis costly wines; 
Made more and more allowance for 

his talk ; 
Went further, fool ! and trusted him 

with all, 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen 

years 
Of dust and deskwork : there is no 

such mine, 
None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing 

gold. 
Not making. Euin'd ! ruin'd ! the 

sea roars 
Ruin : a fearful night ! " 



" Not fearful ; fair," 
Said the good wife, " if every star in 

heaven 
Can make it fair : you do but hear 

the tide. 
Had you ill dreams 1" 

" yes," he said, " I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land, 
And I from out the boundless outer 

deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd 

one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath 

the cliffs. 
I thought the motion of the boundless 

deep 
Bore thro' the cave, and I was heaved 

upon it 
In darkness : then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. ' What a world,' 

I thought, 
' To live in ! ' but in moving on I found 
Only the landward exit of the cave, 
Bright with the sun upon the stream 

beyond : 
And near the light a giant woman sat, 
All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt 
Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 
As high as heaven, and every bird 

that sings : 
And here the night-light flickering in 

my eyes 
Awoke me." 

" That was then your dream," she 
said, 
" Not sad, but sweet." 



" So sweet, I laj-," said he, 
"And mused upon it, drifting up the 

stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision ; for I dream'd that 

still 
The motion of the great deep bore 

me on. 
And that the woman walk'd upon 

the brink : 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd 

her of it : 
' It came,' she said, ' by working in 

the mines : ' 

then to ask her of my shares, I 

thought ; 
And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook 

her head. 
And then the motion of the current 

ceased. 
And there was rolling thimder; and 

we reach 'd 
A mountain, like a wall of burs and 

thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet ixp the 

hill 
Trod out a path : I f ollow'd ; and at 

top 
She pointed seaward : there a fleet of 

glass, 
That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me. 
Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 
That not one moment ceased to thun- 
der, past 
In sunshine : right across its track 

there lay, 
Down in the water, a long reef of gold. 
Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad 

at first 
To think that in our often-ransack'd 

world 
Still so much gold was left ; and then 

I f ear'd 
Lest the gay navy there should splin- 
ter on it. 
And fearing waved my arm to M-arn 

them off; 
An idle signal, for the brittle fleet • 
(I thought I could have died to save 

it) near'd, 
Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and 

vanish'd, and I woke, 

1 heard the clash so clearly. Now I 

see 

My dream was Life ; the M'oman hon- 
est Work ; 

And my poor venture but a fleet of 
glass 

Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold." 

"Nay," said the kindly wife to com- 
fort him, 

"You raised your arm, you tumbled 
down and broke 

The glass with little ISIargaret's medi- 
cine in it ; 



142 



SEA DREAMS. 



And, breaking that, you made and 

broke your dream : 
A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." 

"No trifle," groan'd the husband; 

"yesterday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and 

ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my 

dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. ' Show 

me the books ! ' 
He dodged me with a long and loose 

account. 
* The books, the books ! ' but he, he 

could not wait. 
Bound on a matter he of life and 

death : 
When the great Books (see Daniel 

seven and ten) 
Were open'd, I should find he meant 

me well; 
And then began to bloat himself, and 

ooze 
All over with the fat affectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. 'My 

dearest friend. 
Have faith, have faith ! We live by 

faith,' said he ; 
' And all things work together for the 

good 
Of those ' — it makes me sick to quote 

him — last 
Gript my hand hard, and with God- 

bless-you went. 
I stood like one that had received a 

blow : 
I found a hard friend in his loose ac- 
counts, 
A loose one in the hard grip of his 

hand, 
A curse in his God-bless-you : then my 

eyes 
Pursued him down the street, and far 

away. 
Among the honest shoulders of the 

crowd, 
Read rascal in the motions of his back. 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding 

knee." 

" Was he so bound, poor soul? " 

said the good wife ; 
" So are we all : but do not call him, 

love, 
Before you prove him, rogue, and 

proved, forgive. 
His gain is loss ; for he that wrongs 

his friend 
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears 

about 
A silent court of justice in his breast. 
Himself the judge and jury, and him- 
self 
The prisoner at the bar, ever con- 

demn'd : 



And that drags down his life : tlion 

comes what comes 
Hereafter : and he meant, he said he 

meant. 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, 

you well." 

* 
" ' With all his conscience and one 

eye askew' — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that 

you may learn 
A man is likewise counsel for himself, 
Too often, in that silent court of 

yours — 
' With all his conscience and one eye 

askew, 
So false, he partly took himself for 

true; 
Whose pious talk, when most his 

heart was dry. 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round 

his eye ; 
Who, never naming God except for 

gain, 
So never took that useful name in 

vain. 
Made Him his catspaw and the Cross 

his tool. 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe 

and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace 

he forged, 
And snake-like slimed his victim ere 

he gorged ; 
And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the 

rest 
Arising, did his holy oily best. 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell 

and Heaven, 
To spread the Word by which him- 
self had thriven.' 
How like you this old satire ? " 

"Nay," she said, 
" I loathe it : he had never kindly 

heart, 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind. 
Who first wrote satire, with no i)ity 

in it. 
But will you hear vuj dream, for I 

had one 
That altogether went to music ? Still 
It awed me." 

Then she told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. 

— But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, 

lay. 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died; and, as it 

swell'd, a ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and 

still 



SEA DREAMS. 



143 



Grew with the growing note, and when 

the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fuUness, 

on those cliffs 
Broke, raixt with awful light (the 

same as tliat 
Living within the belt) whereby she 

saw 
That all those lines of cliffs were 

cliffs no more. 
But huge' cathedral fronts of every 

age, 
Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye 

could see, ' 
One after one: and tlien tlie great 

ridge drew. 
Lessening to the lessening music, 

back. 
And past into the belt and swell'd 

again 
Slowly to music : ever when it broke 
The statues, king or saint, or founder 

fell; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of 

ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clusters 

round. 
Some crying, "Set them up ! they shall 

not fall ! " 
And others, "Let them lie, for they 

have fall'n." 
And still they strove and wrangled : 

and she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knev not 

why, to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of 

tune 
With that sweet note; and ever as 

their shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great 

wave 
Eeturning, while none mark'd it, on 

the crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and 

show'd their eyes 
Glaring, with passionate looks, and 

swept away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men 

of stone. 
To the waste deeps together. 

"Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images. 
Both crown'd with stars and high 

among the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her 

child 
High up on one of those dark min- 
ster-fronts — 
Till she began to totter, and the 

child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a 

cry 
Which mixt with little Margaret's, 

and I woke, 
And my dream awed me : — well — 

but what are dreams ? 



Yours came but from the breaking of 

a glass. 
And mine but from the crving of a 

child." 

" Child ■? No ! " said he, " but this 

tide's roar, and his, 
Our Boanerges with his threats of 

doom. 
And loud-limg'd Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho' I grant but little music there) 
Went both to make your dream : but 

if there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries. 
Sphere-music such as that you 

dream'd about. 
Why, that would make our passions 

far too like 
The discords dear to the musician. 

No — 
One shriek of hate would jar all the 

hymns of heaven : 
True Devils with no ear, they howl 

in tune 
With nothing but the Devil ! " 

" ' True ' indeed ! 
One out of our town, but later by an 

hour 
Here than ourselves, spoke with me 

on the shore ; 
While you were rimning down the 

sands, and made 
The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbe- 
low flap. 
Good man, to please the child. She 

brought strange news. 
Why were you silent when I spoke 

to-night ? 
I had set my heart on your forgiving 

him 
Before you knew. We must forgive 

the dead." 

" Dead ! who is dead 1 " 

" The man your eye pursued. 

A little after you had parted with 
him, 

He suddenly dropt dead of heart- 
disease." 

" Dead ? he ? of heart-disease ? what 

heart had he 
To die of ? dead ? " 

" Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too, 
And if he did that wrong you charge 

him with, 
His angel broke his heart. But your 

rough voice 
(You spoke so loud) has roused the 

child again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not 

sleep 



144 



LUCRETIUS. 



Without her 'little birdie ' ? well then, 

sleep, 
And I will sing you, ' birdie.' " 

Saying this, 
The woman half turn'd round from 

him she loved, 
Left him one hand, and reaching 

thro' the night 
Her other, found (for it was close 

beside) 
And half-embraced the basket cradle- 
head 
With one soft arm, which, like the 

pliant bough 
That moving moves the nest and 

nestling, sway'd 
The cradle, while she sang this baby 

song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer. 
Till the little wings are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby saj^ 
In her bed at peep of day ■? 
Baby says, like little birdie, 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer. 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 

" She sleeps : let us too, let all evil, 

sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than 

ours. 
He can do no more wrong: forgive 

him, dear. 
And I shall sleep the sounder ! " 

Then the man, 

" His deeds yet live, the worst is yet 

to come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night 

be sound ; 
I do forgive him ! " 

" Thanks, my love," she said, 
" Your own will be the sweeter," and 
they slept. 



LUCRETIUS. 

LuciLiA, wedded to Lucretius, found 

Her master cold ; for wlien the morn- 
ing flush 

Of passion and the first embrace had 
died 

Between them, tho' he lov'd her none 
the less. 



Yet often when the woman heard his 
foot 

Return from pacings in the field, and 
ran 

To greet him with a kiss, the master 
took 

Small notice, or austerely, for — his 
mind 

Half buried in some weightier argu- 
ment. 

Or fancy, borne perhaps upon the rise 

And long roll of the Hexameter — he 
past 

To turn and ponder those three hun- 
dred scrolls 

Left by the Teacher, whom he held 
divine. 

She brook'd it not ; but wrathful, pet- 
ulant. 

Dreaming some rival, sought and 
found a witch 

Who brew'd the i)hiltre which had 
power, they said. 

To lead an errant passion home again. 

And this, at times, she mingled with 
his drink. 

And this destroy'd him ; for the wdcked 
broth 

Confused the chemic labor of the 
blood. 

And tickling the brute brain within 
the man's 

Made havoc among those tender cells, 
and check'd 

His power to shape : he loathed him- 
self ; and once 

After a tempest woke upon a morn 

That mock'd him with returning calm, 
and cried : 

" Storm in the night ! for thrice I 
heard the rain 

Rushing; and once the flash of a 
thunderbolt — 

Methought I never saw so fierce a 
fork — 

Struck out the streaming mountain- 
side, and show'd 

A riotous confluence of watercourses 

Blanching and billowing in a hollow 
of it. 

Where all but yester-eve was dusty- 
dry. 

" Storm, and what dreams, ye holy 
Gods, what dreams ! 

For thrice I waken'd after dreams. 
Perchance 

We do but recollect the dreams that 
come 

Just ere the waking : terrible ! for it 
seem'd 

A void was made in Nature ; all her 
bonds 

Crack'd ; and I saw the flaring atom- 
streams 



LUCRETIUS. 



145 



And torrents of her myriad universe, 
Ruining along the illimitable inane, 
Fly on to clash together again, and 

make 
Another and another frame of things 
For ever : that was mine, my dream, I 

knew it — 
Of and belonging to me, as the dog 
With inward yelp and restless forefoot 

plies 
His function of the woodland : but the 

next ! 
I thought that all the blood by Sylla 

shed 
Came driving rainlike down again on 

earth, 
And where it dash'd the reddening 

meadow, sprang 
No dragon warriors from Cadmean 

teeth. 
For these I thought ray dream would 

show to me. 
But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art. 
Hired animalisms, vile as those that 

made 
The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies 

worse 
Than aught thev fable of the quiet 

Gods. 
And hands they mixt, and yell'd and 

round me drove 
In narrowing circles till I yell'd again 
Half-suffocated, and sjprang up, and 

saw — 
Was it the first beam of my latest 

day? 

" Then, then, from utter gloom stood 

out the breasts. 
The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly 

a sword 
Now over and now under, now direct, 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down 

shamed 
At all that beauty ; and as I stared, a 

fire. 
The fire that left a roofless Ilion, 
Shot out of them, and scorch'd me 

that I woke. 

" Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, 

thine, 
Because I would not one of thine own 

doves. 
Not ev'n a rose, were offer'd to thee 1 

thine, 
Forgetful how my rich prooemion 

makes 
Thy glory fly along the Italian field, 
In lays that will outlast thy Deity % 

" Deity ? nay, thy worshippers. My 
tongue 
Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of 
these 



Angers thee most, or angers thee at 
all ? 

Not if thou be'st of those who, far 
aloof 

From envy, hate and pity, and spite 
and scorn, 

Live the great life Avhich all our great- 
est fain 

Would follow, center 'd in eternal calm. 

" Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, like 
ourselves 

Touch, and be touch'd, then would I 
cry to thee 

To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender 
arms 

Round him, and keep him from the 
lust of blood 

That makes a steaming slaughter- 
house of Rome. 

" Ay, but I meant not thee ; I meant 

not her. 
Whom all the pines of Ida shook to 

see 
Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, 

and tempt 
The Trojan, while his neat-herds were 

abroad ; 
Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter 

wept 
Her Deity false in human-amorous 

tears ; 
Nor wliom her beardless ajiplc-arbiter 
Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods, 
Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 
Calliope to grace his golden verse — 
Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take 
That popular name of thine to shadow 

forth 
The all-generating powers and genial 

heat 
Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the 

thick blood 
Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs 

are glad 
Nosing' the mother's udder, and the 

bird 
Makes his heart voice amid the blaze 

of flowers : 
Which things appear the work of 

mighty Gods. 

" The Gods ! and if I go, my work is 

left 
Unfinish'd — (/'I go. The Gods, who 

haunt 
The lucid interspace of world and 

world. 
Where never creeps a cloud, or moves 

a wind. 
Nor ever falls the least white star of 

snow, 
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans, 
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to 

mar 



146 



LUCRETIUS. 



Their sacred everlasting calm ! and 

such, 
Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm, 
Not such, nor all unlike it, man may 

gain 
Letting his own life go. The Gods, 

the Gods ! 
If all be atoms, how then should the 

Gods 
Being atomic not be dissoluble, 
Not follow the great law 1 My master 

held 
That Gods there are, for all men so 

believe. 
I prest my footsteps into his, and 

meant 
Surely to lead my Memmius in a train 
Of flowery clauses onward to the proof 
That Gods there are, and deathless. 

Meant ? I meant '>■ 
I have forgotten what I meant : my 

mind 
Stumbles, and all my faculties are 

lamed. 

" Look where another of our Gods, 

the Sun, 
Apollo, Delius, or of older use 
All-seeing Hyperion — what you 

will — 
Has mounted yonder ; since he never 

sware. 
Except his wrath were wreak'd on 

wretched man. 
That he would only shine among the 

dead 
Hereafter; tales! for never yet on 

earth 
Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roast- 
ing ox 
Moan round the spit — nor knows he 

what he sees ; 
King of the East altho' he seem, and 

girt 
With song and flame and fragrance, 

slowly lifts 
His golden feet on those empurpled 

stairs 
That climb into the windy halls of 

heaven : 
And here he glances on an eye new- 
born. 
And gets for greeting but a wail of 

pain ; 
And here he stays upon a freezing 

orb 
That fain would gaze upon him to the 

last; 
And here upon a yellow eyelid f all'n 
And closed by those who mourn a 

friend in vain, 
Not thankful that his troubles are no 

more. 
And me, altho' his fire is on ray face 
Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can 

tell 



Whether I mean this day to end my- 
self. 

Or lend an ear to Plato where he says. 

That men like soldiers may not quit 
the post 

Allotted by the Gods : but he that 
holds 

The Gods are careless, wherefore need 
he care 

Greatly for them, nor rather plunge 
at once. 

Being troubled, wholly out of sight, 
and sink 

Past earthquake — ay, and gout and 
stone, that break 

Body toward death, and palsy, death- 
in-life. 

And wretched age — and worst disease 
of all, 

These prodigies of myriad naked- 
nesses, 

And twisted shapes of lust, unspeak- 
able, 

Abominable, strangers at my hearth 

Not welcome, harpies miring every 
dish, 

The phantom husks of something 
foully done, 

And fleeting thro' the boundless uni- 
verse. 

And blasting the long quiet of vaj 
breast 

With animal heat and dire insanity? 

" How should the mind, except it 

loved them, clasp 
These idols to herself % or do they fly 
Now thinner, and now thicker, like 

the flakes 
In a fall of snow, and so j^ress in, per- 
force 
Of multitude, as crowds that in an 

hour 
Of civic tumult jam the doors, and 

bear 
The keepers down, and throng, their 

rags and they 
The basest, far into that council-hall 
Where sit the best and stateliest of 

the land 1 

" Can I not fling this horror off me 

again. 
Seeing with how great ease Nature 

can smile. 
Balmier and nobler from her bath of 

storm, 
At random ravage ? and how easily 
The mountain there has cast his 

cloudy slough. 
Now towering o'er him in serenest air, 
A mountain o'er a mountain, — ay, 

and within 
All hollow as the hopes and fears of 

men ? 



LUCRETIUS. 



147 



" But who was he, that in the gar- 
den snared 

Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods ? a tale 

To laugh at — more to laugh at in 
myself — 

Nor look ! what is it 1 there ^ yon 
arbutus 

Totters ; a noiseless riot underneath 

Strikes through the wood, sets all the 
tops quivering — 

The mountain quickens into Nymph 
and Faun ; 

And here an Oread — how the sun 
delights 

To glance and shift about her slippery 
sides, 

And rosy knees and supple rounded- 
ness, 

And budded bosom-peaks — who tliis 
way runs 

Before the rest — A satyr, a satyr, see. 

Follows ; but him I proved impossible ; 

Twy-natured is no nature : yet he 
draws 

Nearer and nearer, and I scan him 
now 

Beastlier than any phantom of his 
kind 

That ever butted his rough brother- 
brute 

For lust or lusty blood or provender : 

I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him ; and 
she 

Loathes him as well ; such a precipi- 
tate heel. 

Fledged as it were with Mercury's 
ankle-wing, 

"Whirls her to me : but will she fling 
herself. 

Shameless ujion me ? Catch her, 
goat-foot : nay. 

Hide, hide them, million-myrtled 
wilderness. 

And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide ! 
do I wish — 

What 1 — that the busli were leafless ? 
or to whelm 

All of them in one massacre ? O ye 
Gods, 

I know you careless, yet, behold, to 
you 

From childly wont and ancient use I 
call — 

I thought I lived securely as your- 
selves — 

No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey- 
spite, 

No madness of ambition, avarice, 
none : 

No larger feast than under plane or 
pine 

With neighbors laid along the grass, 
to take 

Only such cups as left us friendly- 
warm. 

Affirming each his own philosophy — 



Nothing to mar the sober majesties 

Of settled, sweet, Epicurean life. 

But now it seems some unseen mon- 
ster lays 

His vast and filthy hands upon my 
will, 

Wrenching it backward into his ; and 
spoils 

My bliss in being ; and it was not 
great ; 

For save when shutting reasons up in 
rhythm. 

Or Heliconian honey in living words. 

To make a truth less harsh, I often 
grew 

Tired of so much within our little 
life. 

Or of so little in our little life — 

Poor little life that toddles half an 
hour 

Crown'd with a flower or two, and 
there an end — 

And since the nobler pleasure seems 
to fade. 

Why should I, beastlike as I find my- 
self, 

Not manlike end myself 1 — our privi- 
lege — 

What beast has heart to do it ? And 
what man. 

What Roman would be dragg'd in tri- 
umph thus ? 

Not I ; not he, who bears one name 
with her 

Whose death-blow struck the dateless 
doom of kings. 

When, brooking not the Tarquin in 
her veins. 

She made her blood in sight of Col- 
latine 

And all his peers, flushing the guiltless 
air. 

Spout from the maiden fountain in 
her heart. 

And from it sprang the Common- 
wealth, which breaks 

As I am breaking now ! 

" And therefore now 
Let her, that is the womb and tomb 

of all, 
Great Nature, take, and forcing far 

apart 
Those blind beginnings that have made 

me man. 
Dash them anew together at her will 
Thro' all her cycles — into man once 

more, 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent 

flower : 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shatter'd into one earthquake in one 

day 
Cracks all to pieces, — and that hour 

perhaps 
Is not so far when momentary man 



14S . ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. - 



Shall seem no more a something to 

himself, 
But he, his hopes and hates, his homes 

and fanes. 
And even his bones long laid within 

the grave, 
The very sides of the grave itself 

shall pass. 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and 

void, 
Into the unseen for ever, — till that 

h6ur, 
My golden work in which I told a truth 
That stays the rolling Lxionian wheel. 
And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, 

and plucks 
The mortal soul from out immortal 

hell, 
Shall stand : ay, surely : then it fails 

at last 
And perishes as I must ; for Thou, 
Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, 
Yearn'd after by the wisest of the 

■wise, 
Who fail to find thee, being as tliou 

art 
Without one pleasure and without one 

pain, 
Howbeit I know thou surely must be 

mine 
Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus 
I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not 
How roughly men may woo thee so 

they win — 
Thus — thus : the soul flies out and 

dies in the air." 

With that he drove the knife into 

his side : 
She heard him raging, heard him fall ; 

ran in, 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon 

herself 
As having fail'd in duty to him, 

shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, 

fell on him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd : he an- 

swer'd, " Care not thou ! 
Thy duty? What is duty? Fare 

thee well ! " 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE 

DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 

PUBLISHED IX 1852. 

I. 

Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation. 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a 
mighty nation. 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom 

we deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central 

roar. 
Let the sound of those lie wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for. 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 

III. 
Lead out the pageant : sad and slow. 
As fits an universal woe. 
Let the long long procession go, 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it 

grow. 
And let the mournful martial music 

blow ; 
The last great Englishman is low. 



Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
Eemembering all his greatness in the 

Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will lie 

greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the 

street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is 

mute : 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring 

blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, res- 
olute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influ- 
ence. 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 
Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
Great in council and great in war. 
Foremost captain of his time, 
Eich in saving common-sense. 
And, as the greatest only are. 
In his simplicity sublime. 
good gray head whicli all men knew, 
O voice from which their omens all 

men drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fall'n at length that tower of 

strength 
Which stood four-square to all the 

winds that blew ! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will 
be seen no more. 



All is over and done : 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
England, for thy son. 
Let the bell be toll'd. 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
And render him to the mould. 
Under the cross of gold 
That shines over city and river, 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



149 



There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds : 

Bright let it be with its blazon'd 

deeds. 
Dark in its funeral fold. 
Let the bell be toU'd: 
And a deeper knell in the heart be 

knoll'd ; 
And the sound of the sorrowing an- 
them roll'd 
Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volleying cannon thunder his 

loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them 

boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : 
Wlien he with those deep voices 

wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from 

shame ; 
With those deep voices our dead cap- 
tain tauglit 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In tliat dread sound to the great name 
AVliich he has worn so pure of blame, 
In praise and in dispraise tlie same, 
A man of well-attemper'd frame. 
O civic muse, to such a name. 
To such a name for ages long. 
To such a name. 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 
And ever-echoing avenues of song. 



Wlio is he that cometh, like an hon- 

or'd guest, 
With banner and with music, with 

soldier and with jiriest, 
With a nation weeping, and breaking 

on my rest ? 
Mighty Seaman, tliis is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves tliee well, thou 

famous man, 
The greatest sailor since our world 

began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For tliis is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea ; 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
give him welcome, this is lie 
Wortliy of our gorgeous rites, 
And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son. 
He that gain'd a hundred fights. 
Nor ever lost an Englisli gun : 
Tliis is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assaye 
Chash'd witli his fiery few and won ; 
And underneatli another sun, 



Warring on a later day. 
Round affriglited Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labor'd rampart-lines, 
Wliere he greatly stood at bay. 
Whence he issued forth anew. 
And ever great and greater grew. 
Beating from the Avasted A'ines 
Back to France her banded swai'ms. 
Back to France Mith countless blows. 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Beyond the Pyrenean j^ines, 
FoUow'd up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamor of men. 
Roll of cannon and clash of arms. 
And England pouring on her foes. 
Such a war had such a close. 
Again their ravening eagle rose 
In anger, whcel'd on Europe-shadow- 
ing wings. 
And barking for the thrones of 

kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron 

crown 
On that loud Sabbath shook the 

spoiler down ; 
A day of onsets of despair! 
Dash'd on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foanfd them- 
selves away; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 
Thro' the long-tormented air 
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 
And down we swept and charged and 

overthrew. 
So great a soldier taught us there. 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world earthquake, Waterloo ! 
Mighty Seaman, tender and true. 
And pure as he from taint of craven 

guile, 
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine, 
If love of country move thee there at 

all. 
Be glad, because his bones are laid by 

thine ! 
And thro' the centuries let a people's 

voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voice. 
The proof and echo of all human 

fame, 
A people's voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel and pomp and game. 
Attest their great commander's claim 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to 

him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams 
forget. 



150 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



Confused by brainless mobs and law- 
less Powers ; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and 

rouglily set 
His Briton in blown seas and storming 

showers, 
"We have a voice, with which to pay 

the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and 

regret 
To those great men who fought, and 

kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute 

control ; \ 

Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, 

the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England 

whole, 
And save the one true seed of free- 
dom sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient 

throne, 
That sober freedom out of which 

there springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate 

kings ; 
For, saving that, ye help to save man- 
kind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into 

dust. 
And drill the raw world for the march 

of mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane and 

crowns be just. 
But wink no more in slothful over- 
trust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade yow. guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward 

wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
For ever; and whatever tempests 

lour 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thmider, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man 

who spoke ; 
"Who never sold the truth to serve the 

hour, 
Kor palter'd with Eternal God for 

power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor 

flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high 

and low ; 
"Whose life was work, whose language 

rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one 

rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on 

the right : 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 



Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 



Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Followed by the brave of other lands, 
He, on whom from both her open 

hands 
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars. 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her 

horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great. 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island- 
story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory: 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes, 
He shall find the stubborn thistle 

bursting 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island- 
story, 
The path of duty was the M\ay to glory : 
He, that ever following her commands, 
On with toil of heart and knees and 

hands. 
Thro' the long gorge to the far light 

has won 
His path upward, and prevail'd. 
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 

scaled 
Are close upon the shining table- 
lands 
To which our God Himself is moon 

and sun. 
Such was he : his work is done. 
But while the races of mankind en- 
dure. 
Let his great example stand 
Colossal, seen of every land. 
And keep the soldier firm, the states- 
man pure : 
Till in all lands and thro' all human 

story 
The path of duty be the way to glory : 
And let the land whose hearts he 

saved from shame 
For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
And when the long-illumined cities 

flame. 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame. 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to 

him. 
Eternal honor to his name. 



Peace, his triumph will be simg 
By some yet unmouldcd tongue 
Far on in summers that we shall not 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852. 



151 



Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung : 

peace, it is a day of pain 

For one, upon whose hand and heart 

and brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe 

hung. 
Ours the pain, be liis the gain ! 
More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
Whom we see not we revere ; 
We revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain. 
And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane : 
We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity, 
Ui)lifted high in heart and hope are 

we. 
Until we doubt not that for one so 

true 
There must be other nobler work to 

do 
Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
And Victor he must ever be. 
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the 

hill 
And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will ; 
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads 

roll 
Round us, each with different powers. 
And other forms of life than ours. 
What know we greater than the soul ? 
/" On God and Godlike men we build our 
■/ trust. 

Hush, the Dead March wails in the 

people's ears : 
The dai'k crowd moves, and there are 

sobs and tears : 
The black earth yawns : the mortal 
L disappears ; 

/ Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 

He is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in State, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can weave 

him. 
Speak no more of his renown, 
La}-^ your earthly fancies down, 
And in the vast cathedral leave him. 
God accej)t him, Christ receive him. 



THE THIRD. OF FEBRUARY, 

1852. 

My Lords, we heard you speak : you 
told us all 



That England's honest censure went 
too far ; 
That our free press should cease to 
brawl, 
Not sting the fiery Frenchman into 
war. 
It was our ancient privilege, my Lords, 
To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, 
into words. 

We love not this French God, the 

child of Hell, 
Wild War, who breaks the converse 

of the wise ; 
But though we love kind Peace so 

well. 
We dare notev'n by silence sanction 

lies. 
It might be safe our censures to with- 
draw ; 
And yet, my Lords, not well : there is 

a higher law. 
As long as we remain, we must speak 

free, 
Tho' all the storm of Europe on us 

break ; 
No little German state are we. 

But the one voice in Europe : we 

timst speak ; 
That if to-night our greatness were 

struck dead. 
There might be left some record of 

the things we said. 

If you be fearful, then must we be 

bold. 
Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant 

o'er. 
Better the waste Atlantic roU'd 

On her and us and ours for evermore. 
What ! have we fought for Freedom 

from our prime. 
At last to dodge and palter with a 

public crime ■? 

Shall we fear him ? our own we never 

fear'd. 
From our first Charles by force we 

wrung our claims. 
Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd. 
We flung the burden of the second 

James. 
I say, we never feared ! and as for these. 
We broke them on the land, we drove 

them on the seas. 

And you, my Lords, you make the 

I^eople muse 
In doubt if you be of our Barons' 

breed — 
Were those your sires who fought at 

Lewes 1 
Is this the manly strain of Runny- 

mede % 
fall'n nobility, that, overawed, 
Would . lisp in honey'd whispers of 

this monstrous fraud ! 



152 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



We feel, at least, that silence here 

were sin, 
Not ours the fault if we have feeble 

hosts — 
If easy patrons of their kin 

Have left the last free race with 

naked coasts ! 
They knew the precious things they 

had to guard : 
For us, we will not spare the tyrant 

one hard word. 

Tho' niggard throats of Manchester 

may bawl. 
What England was, shall her true 

sons forget ? 
"We are not cotton-spinners all. 

But some love England and her 

honor yet. 
And these in our Thermopylaj shall 

stand. 
And hold against the world this honor 

of the land. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 

BRIGADE. 

I. 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
"Forward, tlie Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns," he said : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



" Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
Was there a man disniay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Tlieirs not to reason why. 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at witli shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into tlie mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 



Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while , 
All the world wonder'd : 



Plunged in tlie battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not, 

Not the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon beliind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
Tiiey that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All tliat was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 



When can their glory fade 1 
the wild charge they made ! 

All tlie world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING 
OF THE INTERNATIONAL 
EXHIBITION. 

I. 
Uplift a thousand voices full and 
sweet. 
In this wide hall with earth's inven- 
tion stored. 
And praise the invisible universal 
Lord, 
AVho lets once more in peace the na- 
tions meet, 
Where Science, Art, and Labor 
have outpour 'd 
Their myriad horns of plenty at our 
feet. 

IL 

silent father of our Kings to be 
Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee, 
For this, for all, we weep our thanks 
to thee ! 

III. 
The world-compelling i^lan was 

, tliine, — 
And, lo ! the long laborious miles 
Of Palace ; lo ! the giant aisles. 
Rich in model and design; 
Harvest-tool and husbandry, 
Loom and wheel and enginerj'. 
Secrets of the sullen mine, 
Steel and gold, and corn and wine, 
Fabric rough, or fairy-fine. 
Sunny tokens of the Line, 
Polar marvels, and a feast 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 



153 



Of wonder, out of West and East, 
And shapes and hues of Art divine ! 
All of beauty, all of use, 
That one fair planet can produce, 

Brouglit from under everj' star, 
Blown from over every main, 
And niixt, as life is niixt with pain, 

The works of peace with works of 
war. 

IV. 

Is the goal so far away ? 

Far, how far no tongue can say, 

Let us dream our dream to-day. 



O ye, the wise who think, the wise who 
reign, 

From growing commerce loose her 
latest chain, 

And let the fair white-wing'd peace- 
maker fly 

To happy havens under all the sky. 

And mix the seasons and the golden 
hours ; 

Till each man find his own in all 
men's good. 

And all men work in noble brother- 
hood, 

Breaking their mailed fleets and 
armed towers, 

And ruling by obeying Nature's 
powers, 

And gathering all the fruits of earth 
and crown'd with all her flow- 
ers. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 

MARCH 7, 1863. 

Sea-kings' daughter from over the 

sea, Alexandra ! 

Saxon and Norman and Dane are we. 
But all of us Danes in our welcome 

of thee, Alexandra ! 

Welcome her, thunders of fort and of 

fleet ! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the 

street ! 
Welcome her, all things youthful and 

sweet. 
Scatter the blossom under her feet! 
Break, happy land, into earlier flow- 
ers! 
Make music, O bird, in the new-budded 

bovvers ! 
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and 

prayer ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is 

ours! 
Warble, bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and 

towers ! 
Flames, on the windy headland 

flare! 



Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March 

air ! 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire! 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and 

higher 
Melt into stars for the land's desire! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 
Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the 

strand. 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the 

land, 
And welcome her, welcome the land's 

desire. 
The sea-kings' daughter as happy as 

fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the 

sea — 
O joy to the people and joy to the 

throne. 
Come to us, love us and make us your 

own : 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be. 
We are each all Dane in our welcome 

of thee, Alexandra ! 



A WELCOME TO HER ROYAL 
HIGHNESS MARIE ALEX- 
ANDROVNA, DUCHESS OF 
EDINBURGH. 

MARCH 7, 1874. 

I. 

The Son of him with whom we strove 
for power — 
Whose will is lord thro' all his 

world-domain — 
Who made the serf a man, and burst 
his chain — 
Has given our Pi-ince his own imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 
And welcome, Russian fiower, a 
people's pride. 
To Britain, when her flowers begin 

to blow ! 
From love to love, from home to 
home you go. 
From mother unto mother, stately 
bride, 

Marie Alexandrovna! 



The golden news along the steppes is 
blown. 
And at thy name the Tartar tents 

are stirr'd ; 
Elburz and all the Caucasus have 
heard ; 
And all the sultry palms of India 
known, 

Alexandrovna. 



154 



TJIR GRANDMOTHER. 



The voices of our universal sea 

On capes of Afric as on cliffs of 

Kent, 
The Maoris and that Isle of Conti- 
nent, 
And loyal pines of Canada murmur 
thee, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 



Fair empires branching, botli, in lusty 
life ! — 
Yet Harold's England fell to Nor- 
man swords ; 
Yet thine own land has bow'd to 
Tartar hordes 
Since English Harold gave its throne 
a wife, 

Alexandrovna ! 
For thrones and peoples are as waifs 
that swing. 
And float or fall, in endless ebb and 

flow ; 
But who love best have best the 
grace to know 
That Love by right divine is deathless 
king, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 



And Love has led thee to the stranger 
land, 



Where men are bold and strongly 

say their say ; — 
See, emjiire upon empire smiles to- 
day, 
As thou with thy young lover hand in 
hand, 

Alexandrovna ! 
So now thy fuller life is in the west, 
Whose hand at home was gracious 

to thy poor : 
Thy name was blest within the nar- 
row door ; 
Here also, Marie, shall thy name be 
blest, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 



Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame 
again ? 
Or at thy coming, Princess, every- 
where, 
The blue heaven break, and some 
diviner air 
Breathe thro' the world and change 
the hearts of men, 

Alexandrovna ! 
But hearts that change not, love that 
cannot cease, 
And peace be yours, the peace of 

soul in soul ! 
And howsoever this wild world may 
roll. 
Between your people's truth and man- 
ful peace, 

Alfred — Alexandrovna ! 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne ? 
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. 
And Willy's wife has written : she never was over-wise. 
Never the wife for Willy : he wouldn't take my advice. 



For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save. 
Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for one. 
Eh ! — but he wouldn't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone. 



Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock; 

Never a man could fling him : for Willy stood like a rock. 

" Here's a leg for a babe of a week ! " says doctor ; and he would be bound. 

There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. 



Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue 
I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay ; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 155 



Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and coldj 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so ohl : 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 



For I remember a quarrel I had witU your father, ray dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost mc many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 



For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well 
That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would not tell. 
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar ! 
But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. 



And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, 
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies. 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. 



And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day ; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make one's self clean. 



And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late 

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. 

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over tlae dale. 

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 



All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm, 
Willy, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how; 
Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. 



Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant ; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking curtsey and went. 
And I said, " Let us part : in a hundred years it'll all be the same. 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." 



And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine : 
" Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill; 
But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy still." 



" Marry you, Willy ! " said I, " but I needs must speak my mind. 
And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind." 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, " No, love, no ; " 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 



156 THE GRANDMOTHER. 



So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; 
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 



That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 

There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. 

I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife ; 

But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. 



His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain : 

I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been in vain. 

For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : 

But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. 



But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said rne nay: 
Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have his way : 
Never jealous — not he : we had many a happy year ; 
And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd so near. 



But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died : 
I began to be tired a little, and fain liad slept at his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget : 
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet. 



Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you: 
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. 



And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team : 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 



And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive ; 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : 
And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten; 
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men. 



For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve : 
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I; 
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. 



To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : 
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had ; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease ; 
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. 



NORTHERN FARMER. y 157 



And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, 
And happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 



So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower ; 
But liow can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour. 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; 
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext 1 



And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. 
Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep my eyes. 
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. 
But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to stay. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 

OLD STYLK. 



Wheer 'asta bean saw long and meJi liggin' 'ere aloan ? 

Noorse ? thoort nowt o' a noorse : whoy, Doctor's abean an' agoan : 

Says that I moiint 'a naw moor aale : but I beant a fool : 

Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gooin' to break my rule. 



Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what's nawways true : 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saiiy the things that a do. 
I've 'ed my point o' aille ivry noight sin' I beiin 'ere, 
An' I've 'ed vi\y quart ivry market-noight for foorty year. 



Parson's a besin loikewoise, an' a sittin' ere o' my bed. 
" The amoighty's a taiikin o' you to 'isse'n, my friend," a said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, an's toithe were due, an' I gied it in bond; 
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. 



Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. 

But a cast oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Harris's barne. 

Thaw a knaws I hallus voilted wi' Squoire an' choorch an' staate, 

An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raiite. 



An' I hallus coom'd to's choorch afoor moy Sally wur dead. 
An' 'eerd 'um a bummin' awaiiy loike a buzzard-clock^ ower my 'eiid, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a meiin'd but I thowt a 'ad summut to saay, 
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I coom'd awaay. 



Bessy Marris's barne ! tlia knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, sheii. 
'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun understond; 
I done moy duty boy 'um as I 'a done boy the lond. 

' Oockcliafer. 



158 NORTHER X FARMER. 



But Parson a cooras an' a goos, an' a says it easy an' freea 

" The amoighty's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend," says 'ea. 

I weant saJij' men be loiars, thaw summum said it in 'asiste : 

But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeiik, an' I 'a stubb'd Thurnaby wailste. 



D'ya moind the waiiste, my lass ' naw, naw, tha was not born then ; 

Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eerd 'um mysen ; 

Moiist loike a butter-bump,^ fur I 'eerd 'um aboot an' aboot, 

But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raiived an' rembled 'um oot. 

IX. 

Reaper's it wur ; fo' they fun 'um tlieer a-lailid of 'is faiice 
Doon i' the woild 'enemies -^ afoor I coom'd to the plaace. 
Noiiks or Thimbleby — toaner 'ed shot 'um as deiid as a naail. 
Noiiks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my aale. 

X. 

Dubbut loook at the waaste : theer warn't not f eeiid for a cow ; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it now — 
Warnt worth nowt a haiicre, an' now theer's lots o' feead, 
Fourscoor j'^ows upon it an' some on it doon i' seead. 



Nobbut a bit on it's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall. 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all. 
If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let me aloiin, 
Mea, wi' haate oonderd haacre o' Squoire's an' lond o' my oan. 



Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakin' o' mea ? 

I beiint wonn as saws 'ere a beiin an' yonder a pea ; 

An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear! 

And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty year. 



A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant nor a 'aapoth o' sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taaen young Robins — a niver mended a fence 
But godamoighty a moost taake meji an' taake ma now 
Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby hoalms to plow ! 



Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma a passin' boy. 
Says to thessen naw doubt " what a man a beil sewer-loy ! " 
Fur they knaws wliat I beiin to Squoire sin fust a coom'd to the 'All ; 
I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy hall. 

XV. 

Squoire's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite, 
For whoii's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit; 
Sartin-sewer I beJl, thot a wciint niver give it to Joanes, 
Naw, nor a moiint to Robins — a niver remblcs the stoans. 



But summun 'ull come ater meii mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steiim 
Huzzin' an' majizin' the blessed feiilds wi' the Divil's oJin team. 
Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, tliaw loife they says is sweet, 
But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. 

> Bittern. 3 Anemones. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 159 



XVII. 

What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn brinj^ nia the aiile ? 
Doctor's a 'toiittler, lass, an a's hallus i' tlie owd taale ; 
I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy ; 
Git ma my aale I tell tha, an' if I mun cloy I mini cloy. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 
NEW STYLE. 



Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaiiy ? 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'em saay. 
Proputty, proputty', proputty — Sam, thou's an ass for thy paa'ins: 
Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braains. 



Woii — theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam : yon's parson's 'ouse — 
Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man or a mouse ? 
Time to think on it then ; for thou'll be twenty to weeiik.' 
Proputty, proputty — woa then wojl— let ma 'ear myscn speak. 

III. 
Me an' thy muthor, Sammy, 'as bean a-talkin' o' tlioe ; 
Thou's beiin talkin' to muther, an' she beJin a tellin' it me. 
Thou'll not marry for munny — thou's sweet upo' parson's lass — 
Noii — thou'll marry for luvv — an' we boiith on us tJiinks tha an ass. 

IV. 

Seeii'd her todajiy goii by — Saaint's daiiy — they was ringing the bells. 
She's a beaut}- thou thinks — an' soil is scoors o' gclls, 
Them as 'as munny <in' all — wot's a beauty? — the flower as blaws. 
But propnttj, projjutty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws. 



Do'ant be stunt : - tatike time : I knaws what maiikes tha sa mad. 
Warn't I cralized fur the lasses myse'n when I wur a lad ? 
But 1 knaw'd a Quaiiker feller as often 'as towd ma this : 
" DoJint thou marry for munny, but goii whcer munny is ! " 

VI. 

An' T went wheer munny war : an' thy muther coom to 'and, 
Wi' lots o' munny laa'id by, an' a riicetish bit o' land. 
Maaybe she warn't a beauty — I niver giv it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt ? 



VII. 

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weJint 'a nowt when 'e's dead, . 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle -' her bread : 
Why ? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' weiint niver git naw 'iglier ; 
An' 'e maiide the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shire. 



An thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity debt, 
Stook to his taail they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. 
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' tlic grip, wi' noiin to lend 'im a shove, 
Woorse nor a far-wi'lter'd ^ yowe : fur, Sammy, 'c married fur luvv. 

' This week. = Obstinate. ^ Earn. 

* Or fow-welter'd, — said of a slieep lying on its back in tbe furrow. 



160 



THE DAISY. 



Luvv ? what's luvv ? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too, 
Maakin' 'em goa togither as they've good right to do. 
Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaid by ? 
Naay — fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it : reason why. 



Ay an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, 
Cooms of a gentleman burn : an' we boiith on us thinks tha an ass. 
Woa then, proputty, wiltha ? — an ass as near as mays nowt' — 
Woii then, wiltha ? dangtha ! — the bees is as fell as owt.- 



Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o' the fence! 
Gentleman burn ! what's gentleman burn ? is it shillins an' pence '\ 
Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest 
If it isn't the saame oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best. 



Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals. 
Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taakes their regular meals 
Noa, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meal's to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad. 



Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a bean a laazy lot. 
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got. 
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt ; leastways 'is munny was 'id. 
But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issen dead, an 'e died a good un, 'e did. 



Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill ! 
Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill; 
An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see ; 
And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to thee. 



Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick ; 
But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to Dick. — 
Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'im saay ■ 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter an' canter awaay 



1 Makes nothing. 



The flies are as fierce as anything 



THE DAISY. 
WRITTEN AT EDINBUKGH. 

O LOVE, what hours were thine and 

mine, 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 

What Roman strength Turbla show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain road ; 

How like a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

To meet the sun and sunny waters. 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 



What slender campanili grew 
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 
Where, here and there, on sandy 
beaches 
A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove. 

Now watching high on mountain 
cornice. 
And steering, now, from a purple cove. 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to 
him. 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 



161 



Nor knew he well what pleased us most, 
Not the dipt palm of which they boast ; 

But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast. 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green ; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine. 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain head. 

We loved that hall, tlio' white and cold. 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 
A princely people's awful princes. 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours ; 

What drives about the fresh Cascino, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright vignettes, and each com- 
plete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet. 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd. 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles ; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires. 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires. 

The height, the space, the gloom, 
the glory ! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! 

1 clirab'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues. 
And statiied pinnacles, mute as they. 

How f aintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 
A thousand shadowy-pencill'd val- 
leys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at last 
To Como ; shower and storm and blast 
Had blown the lake beyond his limit. 
And all was flooded ; and how we past 

From Como, when the light was gray. 
And in my head, for half the day. 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way. 



Like ballad-burthen music, kept. 
As on The Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ; 

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake, 
The moonlight touching o'er a 
terrace 
One tall Agave above the lake. 

What more ? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Splugen drew, 
But ere we reach'd the highctit 
summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told of England then to me. 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shalPgo no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea ; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold : 

Yet here to-night in this dark city. 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, 
This nursling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me, 
And where you tenderly laid it by : 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 
The gloom that saddens Heaven and 
Earth, 
The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, 
Perchance, to dream you still be- 
side me. 
My fancy fled to the South again. 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 

JANUARY, 1854. 

Come, when no graver cares employ, 
Godfather, come and see your boy : 

Your presence will be sun in winter. 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few, 
Who give the Fiend himself his due, 
Should eighty-thousand college- 
councils 
Thunder " Anathema," friend, at you ; 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you 

welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of 

Wight ; 



162 



WILL. 



Where, far from noise and smoke of 

town, • 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You'll have no scandal while you dine, 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine : 

Eor groves of pine on either hand, 
To break the blast of winter, stand ; 

And furtlier on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand ; 

Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep, 
And on thro' zones of light and 
shadow • 
Glimmer awaj' to the lonely deep, 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin ; 
Dispute the claims, arrange the 
chances ; 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 
Till you should turn to dearer 
matters, 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 

"How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor; 

How gain in life, as life advances. 
Valor and charity more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet ; 
But when tlie wreath of March has 
blossom'd. 
Crocus, anemone, violet. 

Or later, pay one visit here. 
For those are few we hold as dear ; 
Nor pay but one, but come for 
many, 
Many and many a hapjiy year. 



AVILL. 



O WELL for him whose will is strong! 

He suffers, but he will not suffer long; 

He suffers, but he cannot suffer 
wrong : 

For him nor moves the loud world's 
random mock, 

Nor all Calamity's hugest waves con- 
found, 

Who seems a promontory of rock, 

That, compass'd round with turbulent 
sound, 



In middle ocean meets the surging 

shock, 
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-erown'd. 



But ill for him who, bettering not 

with time. 
Corrupts the strength of huaven- 

descended Will, 
And ever weaker grows thro' acted 

crime. 
Or seeming-genial venial fault. 
Recurring and suggesting still ! 
He seems as one whose footsteps 

halt, 
Toiling in immeasurable sand. 
And o'er a weary sultry land, 
Far beneath a blazing vault, 
Sown in a wrinkle in the monstrous 

hill, 
The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 



IN THE VALLEY OK 
CAUTERETZ. 

All along the valley, stream tiiat 

flashest white. 
Deepening thy voice with the deepen- 
ing of the night, 
All along the valley, where thy waters 

flow, 
I walk'd with one I loved two and 

thirty years ago. 
All along the valley, while I walk'd 

to-day, 
The two and thirty years were a mist 

that rolls away ; 
For all along the valley, down thy 

rocky bed. 
Thy living voice to me was as the 

voice of the dead. 
And all along the valley, by rock and 

cave and tree, 
The voice of the dead was a living 

voice to me. 



IN 



THE GARDEN 
SWAINSTON. 



AT 



Nightingales warbled without, 
AVithin was weeping for thee : 

Shadows of three dead men 
Walk'd in the walks with me. 
Shadows of three dead men 
thou wast one of the three. 



and 



Nightingales sang in his woods : 
The Master was far away : 

Nightingales warbled and sang 
Of a passion that lasts but a day; 
Still in the house in his coffin the 
Prince of courtesy lay. 



rilE FJ.OWER. 



163 



Two dead men have I known 
In courtesy like to thee : 

Two dead men have I loveil 
With a love that ever will he : 
Three dead men have I loved, 
thou art last of the three. 



THE FLOWER. 

Once in a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 

Up there came a Hower, 
The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower. 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tail 

It wore a crown of light, 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by niglit. 

Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and tower. 

Till all the jieople cried, 
" Splendid is the flower." 

Read my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now. 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again tlie people 
Call it but a weed. 



REQUIESCAT. 

Fair is her cottage in its place, ' 
Where yon broad water sweeth', 
slowly glides. 

It sees itself from thatch to base 
Dream in the sliding tides. 

And fairer slie, but ah how soon to 
die! 
Her quiet dream of life this hour 
maj^ cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes liv 
To some more perfect peace. 



The sweet little wife of the singer 

said. 
On the day that follow'd tlie day she 

was wed, 
'" Whitiier, O wliither, love, sliall we 

go >. " 
And the singer sliaking his curly 

head 
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 
There at his riglit with a sudden 

crasli. 
Singing, "And shall it be over tlie 

seas 
Witli a crew that is neither rudi- nor 

rash, 
But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, 
In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd. 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow. 
To a sweet little Eden on eartii that 1 

know, 
A mountain islet pointed and peak'd; 
Waves on a diamond shingle dash, 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, 
And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd 
Witii many a rivulet high against the 

Sun 
The facets of the glorious mountain 

flash 
Above the valleys of palm and 

pine." 

" Thither, O tiiither, love, let us go." 

" No, no, no ! 

For in all that exquisite isle, my 

<lear, 
.There is but one bird witli a musical 

tliroat. 
And his compass is but of a single 

note. 
That it makes one weary to hear." 

" Mock me not ! mock me not ! love, 
let us go." 

" No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom 

on the tree, 
And a storm never wakes on the lonely 

sea, 
And a worm is there in the lonely 

wood. 
That pierces the liver and blackens 

the blood ; 
And makes it a sorrow to be." 



THE ISLET. 

" Whither, O whither, love, shall we 

go, 
For a score of sweet little summers or 

so? " 



THE SAILOR BOY. 

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope. 

Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, 
And reach'd the ship and caught the 

rope. 
And wliistlfd to the morning star. 



164 



THE SAILOR BOY. 



And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce merniaiden cry, 

"O boy, tho' thou art young and 
proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 



" The sands and yeasty surges mix 
In caves about the dreary bay, 

And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 
And in thy heart the scrawl shall 
play." 




" rite sands and i/eusti/ surges tiiix 
In caves about the dreary bu(j." 



"Fool," he answer'd, " death is sure 
To those that stay and those that 
roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 

" My mother clings about my neck. 
My sisters crying, ' Stay for shame ' ; 



My father raves of deatii and wreck. 
They are all to blame, tlicy are all 
to blame. 

"God help me! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 

A devil rises in my lieart, 

Far worse than any death to me." 



CIIILD-SONGS. 



165 



CHILD-SONGS. 



THE CITY CHILD. 

Dainty little maiden, whither would 
you wander ? 
Whither from this pretty home, the 
home where mother dwells ? 

" Far and far away," said the dainty 
little maiden, 

"All among the gardens, aurieulas, 
anemones, ■ 
Roses and lilies and Canterbury- 
bells." 

Dainty little maiden, whither would 

you wander '? 
Whither from this pretty house, 

this city-house of ours ? 
" Far and far away," said the dainty 

little maiden, 
"All among the meadows, the clover 

and the clematis. 
Daisies and kingcups and lioncy- 

suckle-flowers." 



MINNIE AND WINNIE. 

Minnie and Winnie 

Slept in a shell. 
Sleep, little ladies ! 

And they slept well. 

Pink was the shell within, 

Silver without; 
Sounds of the great sea 

Wander'd about. 

Sleep, little ladies ! 

Wake not soon ! 
Echo on echo 

Dies to the moon. 

Two bright stars 

Peep'd into the shell. 

" What are they dreaming of 
Who can tell ? " 

Started a green linnet 

Out of the croft ; 
Wake, little ladies. 

The sun is aloft ! 



THE SPITEFUL LETTER. 

Heke, it is here, the close of the year. 
And with it a spiteful letter. 

My name in song has done him much 
wrong. 
For himself has done much better. 



little bard, is your lot so hard. 
If men neglect 3'our i:)ages % 

1 think not much of yours or of mine, 
I hear Uie roll of the ages. 

Rhymes and rhymes in the range of 
the times ! 

Are mine for the moment stronger '. 
Yet hate nie not, but abide your lot, 

I last but a moment longer. 

This faded leaf, our names are as 
brief ; 
What room is left for a hater % 
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener 
leaf. 
For it hangs one moment later. 

Greater than I — is tliat your cry '? 

And men Mill live to see it. 
Well — if it be so — so it is, you know; 

And if it be so, so be it. 

Brief, brief is a summer leaf, 
But this is the time of hollies. 

hollies and ivies and evergreens. 
How I hate the spites and the 
follies ! 



LITERARY SQUABBLES. 

An God ! the petty fools of rhyme 
That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars 

Before the stony face of Time, 
And look'd at by the silent stars : 

Who hate each other for a song. 
And do their little best to bite 

And pinch their brethren in the throng, 
And scratch the very dead for spite : 

And strain to make an inch of room 
For their sweet selves, and cannot 
hear 
The sullen Lethe rolling doom 

On them and theirs and all things 
here : 

When one small touch of Charity 
Could lift them nearer God-like state 

Than if the crowned Orb should cry 
Like those who cried Diana great : 

And I too, talk, and lose the touch 
I talk of. Surely, after all. 

The noblest answer unto such 

Is perfect stillness when they brawl. 



THE VICTIM. 



A I'LAGUE upon the people fell, 
A famine after laid tliem low, 
Then thorpe and byre arose in fire, 



16G 



WAGES. 



For on tliem brake the sudden foe ; 
So thick they died the peojjle cried, 
" The Gods are moved against the 
land." 
The Priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand : 
" Help us from famine 
And plague and strife ! 
What would you have of us i 
Human life ? 
Were it our nearest, 
Were it our dearest, 
(Answer, () answer) 
We give you his life." 



But still the foeman spoil'd and Inirn'il, 
And cattle died, and deer in wood, 
And bird in air, and fishes turn'd 

And whiten'd all the rolling flood ; 
And dead men lay all over the way, 
Or down in a furrow scathed with 
flame: 
And ever and aye the Priesthood 
moan'd, 
Till at last it seem'd that an answer 
came. 
"The King is happy 
In child and wife ; 
Take you his dearest. 
Give us a life." 



'I lie mother said, "They have taken 
the child 
'io spill his blood and heal the 
land : 
Tiie land is sick, the people diseased, 
And blight and famine on all the 
lea: 
ilie holy Gods, they must be appeased. 
So I pray you tell the truth to mc. 
They have taken our son, 
They will have his life. 
Is he your dearest ? 
Or I, the wife ? " 



i'lie King biiit low, with hand on 
brow, 
He stay'd his arms upon his knee : 
" O wife, what use to answer now 'i 
For now the Priest has judged for 
me." 
The King was shaken with holy fear ; 
"The Gods," he said, "would have 
chosen well ; 
^'et both are near, and both are dear, 
And which the dearest I cannot tell !" 
But the Priest was happy. 
His victim won : 
" We have his dearest, 
His only son ! " 



The Priest went out by heath and hill ; 
The King was hunting in the wild ; 
They found the mother sitting still ; 
She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old, 
His beauty still with his years in- 
creased. 
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold. 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 
The Priest beheld him. 
And cried with joy, 
" The Gods have answer'd : 
We give them the boy." 



The King return'd from out the wild. 
He bore but little game in hand ; 



The rites prepared, the victim bared, 
The knife uprising toward the 
blow 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone, 

" Me, not my darling, no ! " 
He caught her away with a sudden 
cry; 
Suddenly from him brake his wife. 
And shrieking " 7 am his dearest, I — 
/ am his dearest ! " rush'd on the 
knife. 
And the Priest was happy, 
"O, Father Odin, 
We give you a life. 
Which was his nearest ? 
Who was his dearest '? 
The Gods have answer'd ; 
We give them the wife ! " 



WAGES. 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song. 

Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea — 

Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong — 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she : 

Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. 

The wages of sin is death : if the wages of Virtue be dust, 

Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly ? 

She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just. 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky : 

Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 



THE HIGHER PAA'THEISM. 



167 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, tlie hills and the jjhiins — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns '( 

Is not the Vision He ? tlio' He be not tliat which He seems '<: 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not Jive in dreams 'k 

Earth, these solid stars, tliis weiglit of body and limb. 
Are tliey not sign and symbol of thy division from Him ? 

Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason why ; 

For is He not all but thou, that liast power to feel " I am I " ! 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou fulfillest tliy doom 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendor and gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit ean meet- 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. 

God is law, say tlie wise ; Soul, and let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law tlie thunder is yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool ; 

For all we have power to see is a straiglit staff bent in a pool ; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see ; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it not He ? 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. . 



The voice and the Peak 
Far over summit and lawn. 

The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 
of dawn ! 



All night have I heard the voice 

Rave over the rocky bar. 
But thou wert silent in heaven. 

Above thee glided the star. 

III. 

Hast thou no voice, O Peak, 
That standest high above all ? 

" I am the voice of the Peak, 
I roar and rave for I fall. 

IV. 

" A thousand voices go 

To North, South, East, and West; 
They leave the heights and are 
troubled. 

And moan and sink to their rest. 



" The fields are fair beside them. 
The chestnut towers in his bloom ; 

But they — they feel the desire of the 
deep — 
Fall, and follow their doom. 



" The deep has power on the heiglit, 
And tlie height has power on the 
deep ; 

They are raised for ever and ever. 
And sink again into sleep." 



Not raised for ever and ever. 
But when their cycle is o'er. 

The vallej', the voice, the peak, the 
star 
Pass, and are found no more. 



The Peak is high and flush'd 
At his highest with sunrise fire ; 

The Peak is high, and the stars are 
high. 
And the thought of a man is higher. 



A deep below the deep. 

And a height beyond the height ! 
Our hearing is not hearing. 

And our seeing is not sight. 



The voice and the Peak 

Far into heaven withdrawn, 

The loffe glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 
of dawn ! 



168 



A DEDICATION. 



Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my 

hand, 
Little flower — but if I could under- 
stand 
"What you are, root and all, and all in 

all, 
I should know what God and man is. 



A DEDICATION. 

Dear, near and true — no truer Time 
himself 

Can prove you, tho' he make you ever- 
more 

Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of 
life 

Shoots to the fall — take this and pray 
that he 



Wlio wrote it, honoring your sweet 

faith in liim, 
May trust himself; and after praise 

and scorn. 
As one who feels the immeasurable 

world, 
Attain the wise indifference of the 

wise ; 
And after Autumn past — if left to 

pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless 

days — 
Draw toward the long frost and long- 
est night. 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the 

fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks 

a flower. 1 

1 The fruit of the Spindle-tree {Euony- 
mus EuropcBus). 



EXPERIMENTS. 



BOADICEA. 

While about the shore of Mona those Xcronian legionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, 
Far in the East Boiidicea, standing loftily charioted, 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility, 
Girt b^' half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodiine, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. 

" They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous populates. 
Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating 1 
Shall I heed them in their anguish ''. shall I brook to be supplicated ' 
Hear Iccnian, Caticuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon annihilate us ? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering 1 
Bark an answer, Britain's raven ! bark and blacken innumerable, 
Blacken round the lloman carrion, make the carcase a skeleton. 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, 
Till the face of Bel be brightcn'd, Taranis be propitiated. 
Lo their colony half-defended! low their colony, Camulodiine ! 
There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. 
There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot. 
Such is Rome, and this her deity : hear it, Sjiirit of Cassivelaiin ! 

" Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O Coritanian ! 
Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Caticuchlanian, Trinobant. 
These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances, 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially. 
Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred. 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men ; 
Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary ; 
Lastly yonder 3'ester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 
There was one who watch'd and told me — down their statue of Victory fell. 
Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Ciimulodiine, 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to be pitiful 1 
Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall we dandle it amorously ? 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating, 



TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD. 169 

There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, 

Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang tlie terrible prophetesses, 

' Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets ! 

Tho' the Konian eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee. 

Thou shalt wax and he sliall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet! 

Thine the liberty, thine tlie glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated, 

Thine the niyriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable. 

Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, 

Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of G-od.' 

So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguries hapjiier ? 

So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometli a victory now. 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Me the wife of rich Prasiitagus, me the lover of lil)erty, 
Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lasli'd and humiliated, 
Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! 
See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy! 
AVheix'fore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. 
Lo tlie palaces and the temple, lo the colony Ca'mulodiine ! 
There they ruled, and thence the}' wasted all the flourishing territory, 
Thither at tlieir will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness — 
Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. 
Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, 
Till the victim hear within and yearn to hiirry precipitously 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane wliiri'd. 
Lo the colony, there thej' rioted in the city of Cunobeli'ne ! 
There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebonj' lay, 
Rolling on their purple couclies in their tender effeminacy. 
There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there — there — thej- dwell no more. 
Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary. 
Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable. 
Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness. 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated. 
Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out. 
Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us." 

So the Queen Boiidice'a, standing loftily charioted. 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like, 
Yell'd and shrick'd between her daughters in her fierce volubility. 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated. 
Madly dasli'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments, 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January, 
Roar'd as when the roaring breakers boom and blanch on the precipices, 
Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. 
So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries 
Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand. 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice. 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously. 
Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away. 
Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 
Ran the land with Roman slaugliter, multitudinous agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary. 
Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodune. 



IN QUANTITY. 

ON TRANSLATIONS OF HOMER. 
Hexameters and Pentameters. 

These lame hexameters the strong-wing'd music of Homer ! 

No — but a most burlesque barbarous experiment. 
When was a harsher sound ever heard, ye Muses, in England ? 

When did a frog coarser croak upon our Helicon ? 
Hexameters no worse than daring Germany gave us. 
Barbarous experiment, barbarous hexameters. 



170 



TRANSLATIOiV OF 'J HE ILIAD. 



MILTON. 

Alcaics. 

() MiuHTY-MOHTii'i) iiivontor of Jiar- 

monies, 
skill'd to sing of Time or Eternitj-, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for 
ages ; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdicl, 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous ar- 
mories, 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel on- 
set — 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness. 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmur- 
ing. 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean 
isle. 
And crimson-hued the stately palm- 
woods 
Whisper in odorous heights of 
even. 

Hendecasyllabics. 

O YOU chorus of indolent reviewers, 
Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, 
Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 
All composed in a metre of Catullus 
All in quantity, careful of my motion, 
Like the skater on ice that hardly 

bears him, 
Lest I fall unawares before the people. 
Waking laughter in indolent re- 
viewers. 
Should I flounder awhile without a 

tumble 
Thro' this metrification of Catullus, 
They should speak to me not without 

a welcome. 
All that chorus of indolent reviewers. 
Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to 

tumble. 
So fantastical is the dainty metre. 
Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor 

believe me 
Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers, 
() blatant Magazines, regard me 

rather — 
Since I blush to belaud myself a mo- 
ment — 



As some rare little rose, a piece of in- 
most 
Horticultural art, or half coquette-like 
Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLA- 
TION OF THE ILIAD IN 
BLANK VERSE. 

So Hector spake ; the Trojans roar'd 

applause ; 
Then loosed their sweating horses 

from the yoke. 
And each beside his chariot bound his 

own; 
And oxen from the city, and goodly 

sheep 
In haste they drove, and honey-hearted 

wine 
And bread from out the houses 

brought, and heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off 

the plain 
RoU'd the rich vapor far into the 

heaven. 
And these all night upon the bridge^ 

of war 
Sat glorying ; many a fire before them 

blazed : 
As when in heaven the stars about the 

moon 
Look beautiful, when all the winds are 

laid, 
And every height comes out, and jut- 
ting peak 
And valley, and the immeasurable 

heavens 
Break open to their highest, and all 

the stars 
Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in 

his heart : 
So many a fire between the ships and 

stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers 

of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain; and close 

by each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning 

fire; 
And eating hoary grain and pulse the 

steeds, 
Fixt by their cars, waited the golden 

dawn. Iliad viii. 542-561. 

^ Or ridge. 



THE WINDOW. 



171 



THP: WINDOW; 

OR, THE SONG OF THE WEEKS. 

Four years ago Mr. Sullivan requested'me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for 
him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as " Or- 
pheus with his lute," and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet, whose almost 
only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. 1 am sorry that my 
four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days; but the 
music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise. 

December, 1870. A. Tennyson. 

THE WINDOW. 



ON THE HILL. 

ThE lights and shadows fly ! 
Yonder it briglitens and darkens down 
on the plain. 
A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's 
eye! 
Oh is it the brook, or a pool, or her 
window pane, 
When the winds are up in the 
morning ■? 

Clouds that are racing above, 
And -jvinds and lights and shadows 
that cannot be still, 
All running on one way to the home 
of my' love, 
You are all running on, and I stand 
on the slope of the hill. 
And the winds are up in the morn- 
ing ! 

Follow, follow the chase ! 
And my thoughts are as quick and as 
quick, ever on, on, on. 
O lights, are you flying over her 
sweet little face '? 
And my heart is tliere before you are 
come, and gone. 
When the winds are up in the 
morning ! 

Follow them down the slope ! 
And I follow them down to the window- 
pane of my dear. 
And it brightens and darkens and 
brightens like my hope, 
And it darkens and brightens and 
darkens like my fear, 
And the winds are up in the 
morning. 

AT THE WINDOW. 

Vine, vine and eglantine. 
Clasp her window, trail and twine ! 
Rose, rose and clematis. 
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss, 
Kiss, kiss ; and make her a bower 
All of flowers, and drop me a flower, 
Drop me a flower. 

Vine, vine and eglantine, 

Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine f 



Rose, rose and clematis. 
Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss. 
Kiss, kiss — and out of her bower 
All of flowers, a flower, a flower, 
Dropt, a flower. 

GONE. 

Gone ! 

Gone, till the end of the year, 

Gone, and the light gone with her, and 

left me in shadow here ! 
Gone — flitted away, 
Taken the stars from the night and 

the sun from the day ! 
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a 

storm in the air ! 
Flown to the east or the west, flitted 

I know not where ! 
Down in the south is a flash and a 

groan : she is there ! she is 

there ! 



The frost is here. 
And fuel is dear, 
And woods are sear, 
And fires burn clear, 
And frost is here 

And has bitten the heel of the going 
year. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

You roll up away from the light 

The blue wood-louse, and the plump 

dormouse. 
And the bees are still'd, ami the flies 

are kill'd. 
And you bite far into the heart 'of the 

house. 
But not into mine. 

Bite, frost, bite! 

The woods are all the searer. 

The fuel is all the dearer, 

The fires are all the clearer. 

My spring is all the nearer. 

You have bitten into the heart of the 

earth. 
But not into mine. 



Birds' love and birds' song 
Flying here and there. 



172 



THE VVINDO^V. 



Birds' song and birds' love, 
And you with gold for hair ! 

Birds' song and birds' love. 
Passing with the weather. 

Men's song and men's love, 
To love once and for ever. 

Men's love and birds' love, 

And women's love and men's ! 
And you my wren with a crown of 
gold, 

You my queen of the wrens ! 
You the queen of the wrens — 

We'll be birds of a feather, 
I'll be King of the Queen of the 
wrens. 

And all in a nest together. 

THE LETTER. 

Where is another sweet as my sweet. 
Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy ? 

Fine little hands, fine little feet — 
Dewy blue eye. 

Shall I write to her \ shall I go ■? 
Ask her to marry me by and b}^ ? 

Somebody said that she'd say no ; 
Somebody knows that she'll say ay ! 

Ay or no, if ask'd to her face ? 

Ay or no, from shy of the shy ? 
Go, little letter, apace, apace. 

Fly; 

Fly to the light in the valley below — 
Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye : 

Somebody said tliat she'd say no ; 
Somebody knows that she'll say ay ! 

NO ANSWER. 

The mist and the rain, the mist and 
the rain ! 
Is it ay or no "? is it ay or no "? 
And never a glimpse of her window 
pane ! 
And I may die but the grass will 
grow, 
And the grass will grow when I am 

gone. 
And- the wet west wind and the world 

will go on. 
Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, 
No is trouble and cloud and storm. 
Ay is life for a hundred years, 

No will push me down to the worm. 
And when I am there and dead and 

gone, 
The wet west wind and the world will 
go on. 

The wind and the wet, the wind and 
the wet ! 
Wet west wind how you blow, you 
blow ! 
And never a line from my lady yet ! 
Is it ay or no 1 is it ay or no ? 



Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, 
The wet west wind and the world may 
go on. 

NO ANSWER. 

Winds are loud and you are dumb. 
Take my love, for love will come, 

Love will come but once a life. 
Winds are loud and winds M'ill pass ! 
Spring is here with leaf and grass : 

Take my love and be my wife. 
After-loves of maids and men 
Are but dainties drest again : 
Love me now, you'll love me theij : 

Love can love but once a life. 



THE ANSWER. 

Two little hands that meet, 
Claspt on her seal, my sweet ! 
Must I take you and break you, 
Two little hands that meet "? 
I must take you, and break you. 
And loving hands must part — 
Take, take — break, break — 
Break — you may break my heart. 
Faint heart never won — 
Break, break, and all's done. 



Be merry, all birds, to-day. 

Be merry on earth as you never 
were merry before, 
Be merry in heaven, O lai-ks, and far 
away. 
And merry for ever and ever, and 
one day more. 

Why ? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 
Look, look, how he flits, 

The fire-crown'd king of the wrens, 
from out of the jnne ! 
Look how they tumble the blossom, 
the mad little tits ! 
" Cuck-oo ! Cuck-oo ! " was ever a 
May so fine ? 

Why? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 
O merry the linnet and dove. 

And swallow and sparrow and 
throstle, and have your desire ! 
O merry my heart, you have gotten 
the wings of love. 
And flit like the king of the wrens 
with a crown of fire. 
Why 1 
For its ay ay, ay ay. 



Sun comes, moon comes, 
Time slips away. 

Sun sets, moon sets. 
Love, fix a day. 



THE WINDOW. 



173 



" A year hence, a year hence." 
" We shall both be gray." 

" A month hence, a month hence.' 
" Far, far away." 

" A week hence, a week hence." 

" Ah, the long delay." 
" Wait a little, wait a little, 

You shall fix a day." 

"To-morrow, love, to-morrow 
And that's an age away." ' 

Blaze upon her window, sun. 
And honor ail the day. 

MARRIAGE MORNING. 

Light, so low upon earth, 
You send a flash to the sun. 

Here is the golden close of love, 
All my wooing is done. 



Oh, the woods and the meadows. 
Woods where we hid from the wet, 

Stiles where vve stay'd to be kind, 
Meadows in which we met ! 

Light, so low in the vale 

You flash and lighten afar, 
For this is the golden morning of love. 

And you are his morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I come, 

By meadow and stile and wood, 
Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart. 

Into my heart and my blood ! 

Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires ? 
heart, are you greatenough for love ? 

I have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers, 

Over the meadows and stiles, 
Over the world to the end of it 

Flash for a million miles. 




IDYLS OF THE KINa. 



3,=*CO 



DEDICATION. 

These to His Memory — since he held 
them dear, 

Perchance as finding there uncon- 
sciously 

Some image of himself — I dedicate, 

I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 

These Idylls. 

And indeed He seems to me 

Scarce other than my king's ideal 
knight, 

" Who reverenced his conscience as 
his king; 

Whose glory was, redressing human 
wrong ; 

Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd 
to it; 

Who loved one only and who clave to 
her — " 

Her — over all whose realms to their 
• last isle. 

Commingled with the gloom of im- 
minent war. 

The shadow of His loss drew like 
eclipse. 

Darkening the world. We have lost 
him : he is gone : 

We know him now : all narrow jeal- 
ousies 

Are silent; and we see him as he 
moved. 

How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, 
wise. 

With what sublime repression of him- 
self. 

And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 

Not swaying to this faction or to tliat ; 

Not making his high place the lawless 
perch 

Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage- 
ground 

For pleasure ; but thro' all this tract 
of years 

Wearing tlie white flower of a blame- 
less life. 

Before a thousand peering littlenesses, 

In that fierce light which beats upon 
a throne. 

And blackens every blot : for where 
is he. 



Who dares foreshadow for an only 

son 
A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than 

his? 
Or how should England dreaming of 

Jiis sons 
Hope more for these than some in- 
heritance 
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as 

tl)ine, 
Tliou noble Father of her Kings to be. 
Laborious for her people and her 

poor — 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler 

day — 
Far-sighted summoner of War and 

Waste 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of 

peace — 
Sweet nature' gilded by the gracious 

gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince 

indeed. 
Beyond all titles, and a household 

name. 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the 

Good. 

Break not, woman's-heart, but 

still endure ; 
Break not, for thou art lloyal, but 

endure, 
Remembering all the beauty of that 

star 
Which shone so close beside Thee that 

ye made 
One light together, but has past and 

leaves 
The Crown a lonely splendor. 

May all love, 
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy sons encompass 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy daughters cherish 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy people comfort 

Thee, 
Till God's love set Thee at his side 

again ! 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



175 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, 
Had one fair daughter, and none other 

child ; 
And she was fairest of all flesh on 

earth, 
Guinevere, and in her his one delight. 

For many a petty king ere Arthur 

came 
Ruled in this isle, and ever waging 

war 
Each upon other, wasted all the laud ; 
And still from time to time the 

heathen host 
Swarm'd overseas, and harried what 

was left. 
And so there grew great tracts of wil- 
derness, 
Wherein the beast was ever more and 

more. 
But man was less and less, till Arthur 

came. 
For first Aurelius lived and fought 

and died. 
And after him King Uther fought and 

died. 
But either f ail'd to make the kingdom 

one. 
And after these King Arthur for a 

space. 
And thro' the puissance of his Table 

Round, 
Drew all their petty princedoms under 

him, 
Their king and head, and made a realm, 

and reign'd. 

And thus the land of Cameliard 

was waste, 
Thick with wet woods, and manj- a 

beast therein, 
And none or few to scare or chase the 

beast ; 
So that wild dog, and wolf and boar 

and bear 
Came night and day, and rooted in 

the fields, 
And M'allow'd in the gardens of the 

King. 
And ever and anon the wolf would 

steal 
The children and devour, but now and 

then, 
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her 

fierce teat 
To human sucklings ; and the children, 

housed 
In her foul den, there at their meat 

would growl, 
And mock their foster-mother on four 

feet. 
Till, straighten'd, they grew up to 

wolf-like men, 



Worse than the wolves. And King 

Leodogran 
Groan'd for the Roman legions here 

again. 
And CcBsar's eagle : then liis brother 

king, 
Urien, assail'd him : last a heathen 

horde, 
Reddening the sun with smoke and 

earth with blood, 
And on the spike that split the 

mother's heart 
Spitting the child, brake on him, till, 

amazed, 
He knew not whither he should turn 

for aid. 

But — for he lieard of Arthur newly 

crown'd, 
Tho' not without an uproar made by 

those 
Who cried, " He is not Uther's son " 

— the King 
Sent to him, saying, " Arise, and help 

us thou ! 
For here between the man and beast 

we die." 

And Arthur yet had done no deed 

of arms. 
But heard the call, and came : and 

Guinevere 
Stood by the castle walls to watch him 

pass ; 
But since he neither wore on helm or 

shield 
The golden symbol of his kinglihood. 
But rode a simple knight among his 

knights, 
And many of these in richer arms 

than he, 
She saw him not, or mark'd not, if she 

saw. 
One among many, tho' his face was 

bare. 
But Arthur, looking downward as he 

past. 
Felt the light of her eyes into iiis life 
Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and 

pitch'd 
His tents beside the forest. Then he 

drave 
The heathen ; after, slew the beast, 

and fell'd 
The forest, letting in the sun, and 

made 
Broad pathways for the hunter and 

the knight 
And so return'd. 

For while he linger'd there, 
A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the 

hearts 
Of those great Lords and Barons of 

his realm 



176 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



Flash'd forth and into war : for most 

of these, 
CoUeaguing with a score of petty 

kings, 
Made head against him, crying, " Who 

is he 
That he should rule us 1 who hath 

proven him 
King Uther's son ? for lo ! we look at 

him, 
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs 

nor voice. 
Are like to those of Uther whom we 

knew. 
This is the son of Gorlois, not the 

King ; 
This is the son of Anton, not the 

King." 

And Arthur, passing thence to 

battle, felt 
Travail, and throes and agonies of the 

life, 
Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere; 
And thinking as he rode, " Her father 

said 
That there between the man and beast 

they die. 
Shall I not lift her from this land of 

beasts 
Up to my throne, and side by side . 

with me ? 
What happiness to reign a lonely 

king, 
Vext — O ye stars that shudder over 

me, 

earth that soundest hollow under 

me, 
Vext with waste dreams ? for saving 

I be join'd 
To her that is the fairest under heaven, 

1 seem as nothing in the mighty 

world. 
And cannot will my will, nor work my 

work 
Wholly, nor make myself in mine own 

realm 
Victor and lord. But were I join'd 

with her, 
Then might we live together as one 

life, 
And reigning with one will in every- 
thing 
Have power in this dark land to 

lighten it, 
And power on this dead world to 

make it live." 

Thereafter — as he speaks who tells 

the tale — 
When Arthur reach'd a field-of-battle 

bright 
With pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the 

world 
Was all so clear about him, that he 

saw 



The smallest rock far on the faintest 

hill, 
And even in high day the morning 

star. 
So when the King had set his banner 

broad. 
At once from either side, with trumpet- 
blast, 
And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto 

blood. 
The long-lanced battle let their horses 

run. 
And now the Barons and the kings 

prevail'd. 
And now the King, as here and there 

that war 
Went swaying; but the Powers who 

walk the world 
Made lightnings and great thunders 

over him. 
And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by 

main might. 
And mightier of his hands with every 

blow, 
And leading all his knighthood threw 

the kings 
Carados, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, 
Claudias, and Clariance of Northum- 
berland, 
The King Brandagoras of Latangor, 
With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, 
And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a 

voice 
As dreadful as the shout of one who 

sees 
To one who sins, and deems himself 

alone 
And all the world asleep, they swerved 

and brake 
Flying, and Arthur call'd to stay the 

brands 
That hack'd among the flyers, " Ho ! 

they yield ! " 
So like a painted battle the war stood 
Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, 
And in the heart of Arthur joy was 

lord. 
He laugh'd upon his warrior whom 

he loved 
And honor'd most. " Thou dost not 

doubt me King, 
So well thine arm hath wrought for 

me to-day." 
" Sir and my liege," he cried, " the 

fire of God 
Descends upon thee in the battle-field : 
I know thee for my King ! " Whereat 

the two. 
For each had warded either in the 

fight, 
Sware on the field of death a deathless 

love. 
And Arthur said, " Man's word is God 

in man : 
Let chance what will, I trust thee to- 

the death." 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



177 



Then quickly from the foughten 

field he sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 
His new-made knights, to King Leo- 

dogran, 
Saying, " If I in aught have served 

thee well. 
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to 

wife." 

Whom when he heard, Leodogran 

in heart 
Dehating — " How should I that am a 

king. 
However much he help me at my 

need. 
Give my one daughter saving to a 

king. 
And a king's son ? " — lifted his voice, 

and call'd 
A hoary man, his chamberlain, to 

whom 
He trusted all things, and of him 

required 
His counsel : " Knowest thou aught of 

Arthur's birth 1 " 

Then spake the hoary chamberlain 

and said, 
" Sir King, there be but two old men 

that know : 
And each is twice as old as I ; and one 
Is Merlin, the wise man that ever 

served 
King Uther thro' his magic art ; and 

one 
Is Merlin's master (so they call him) 

Bleys, 
Who taught him magic ; but the 

scholar ran 
Before the master, and so far, that 

Bleys 
Laid magic by, and sat him down, and 

wrote 
All things and whatsoever Merlin did 
In one great annal-book, where after 

years 
Will learn the secret of oup Arthur's 

birth." 

To whom the King Leodogran 
replied, 

" O friend, had I been holpen half as 
well 

By this King Arthur as by thee to- 
day, 

Then beast and man had had their 
share of me : 

But summon here before us yet once 
more 

Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere." 

Then, when they came before him, 
the King said, 
" I have seen the cuckoo chased by 
lesser fowl. 



And reason in the chase : but where- 
fore now 

Do these your lords stir up the heat 
of war, 

Some calling Arthur born of Gorlo'is, 

Others of Anton ? Tell me, ye your- 
selves, 

Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther's 
son ? " 

And Ulfius and Brastius answer'd, 

" Ay." 
Then Bedivere, the first of all his 

knights 
Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, 

spake — 
For bold in heart and act and word 

was he, 
Whenever slander breathed against 

the King — 

"Sir, there be many rumors on this 

head : 
For there be those who hate him in 

their hearts. 
Call him baseborn, and since his ways 

are sweet. 
And theirs arc bestial, hold him less 

than man : 
And there be those who deem him 

more than man. 
And dream he dropt from heaven : but 

my belief 
In all this matter — so ye care to 

learn — 
Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's 

time 
The prince and warrior Gorlo'is, he 

that held 
Tintagil castle by the Cornish sea, 
Was wedded with a winsome wife, 

Ygerne : 
And daughters had she borne him, — 

one whereof. 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, 

Bellicent, 
Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved 
To Arthur, — but a son she had not 

borne. 
And Uther cast upon her eyes of love : 
But she, a stainless wife to Gorlo'is, 
So loathed the bright dishonor of his 

love, 
That Gorlo'is and King Uther went to 

war : 
And overthrown was Gorlo'is and slain. 
Then Uther in his wrath and heat 

besieged 
Ygerne within Tintagil, where her 

men. 
Seeing the mighty swarm about their 

walls. 
Left her and fled, and Uther enter'd 

in. 
And there was none to call to but him- 
self. 



178 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



So, compass'd by the power of the 

King, 
Enforced she was to wed him in her 

tears, 
And with a shameful swiftness : after- 
ward, 
Not many moons, King Uther died 

himself, 
Moaning and wailing for an heir to 

rule 
After him, lest the realm should go to 

wrack. 
And that same night, the night of the 

new year, 
By reason of the bitterness and grief 
That vext his mother, all before his 

time 
Was Arthur born, and all as soon as 

born 
Deliver'd at a secret postern-gate 
To Merlin, to be holden far apart 
Until his hour should come , because 

the lords 
Of that fierce day were as the lords of 

this. 
Wild beasts, and surely would have 

torn the child 
Piecemeal among them, had they 

known ; for each 
But sought to rule for his own self 

and hand. 
And many hated Uther for the sake 
Of Gorlois. Wherefore Merlin took 

the child, 
And gave him to Sir Anton, an old 

knight 
And ancient friend of Uther ; and his 

wife 
Nursed the young prince, and rear'd 

him with her own ; 
And no man knew. And ever since 

the lords 
Have foughten like wild V)easts among 

tliemselves, 
So that the realm has gone to wrack : 

but now. 
This year, when Merlin (for his hour 

had come) 
Brought Artlmr forth, and set him in 

the hall, 
Proclaiming, ' Here is Uther's heir, 

your king,' 
A hundred voices cried, 'Away with 

him ! 
No king of ours ! a son of Gorlois 

he. 
Or else the child of Anton, and no 

king. 
Or else baseborn.' Yet Merlin tliro' 

his craft. 
And while the people clamor'd for a 

king, 
Had Arthur crown'd; but after, the 

great lords 
Banded, and so brake out in open 

war." 



Then while the liing debated with 

himself 
If Arthur were the child of shameful- 

ness, 
Or born the son of Gorlois, after 

death, 
Or Uther's son, and born before liis 

time. 
Or whether there were truth in any- 
thing 
Said by these three, there came to 

Cameliard, 
With Gawain and young Modred, lier 

two sons, 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, 

Bellicent ; 
Whom as he could, not as he would, 

the King 
Made feast for, saying, as they sat at 

meat, 

" A doubtful throne is ice on sum- 
mer seas 

Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor 
liis men 

Report him ! Yea, but ye — think ye 
tliis king — 

So many those that hate him, and so 
strong, 

So few his knights, however brave 
they be — 

Hath body enow to hold his foemen 
down ? " 

"O King," she cried, "and I will 

tell thee: few. 
Few, but all brave, all of one mind 

with him ; 
For I was near him when the savage 

yells 
Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur 

sat 
Crown'd on the da'is, and his warriors 

cried, 
' Be thou the king, and we will work 

thy will 
Who love thee.' Then the King in 

low deep tones. 
And simple words of great authority, 
Bound tliem by so strait vows to his 

own self. 
That when they rose, knighted from 

kneeling, some 
Were pale as at the passing of a ghost. 
Some flUsh'd, and others dazed, as one 

who wakes 
Half-blinded at the coming of a light. 

" But when he spake and cheer'd 

his Table Eoxmd 
With large divine and comfortable 

words 
Beyond my tongue to tell thee — I 

beheld 
From eye to eye thro' all their Order 

flash 



THE COMING OF ART II UK. 



179 



A momentary likeness of the King ; 
And ere it left their faces, thro' the 

cross 
And those around it and the Crucified, 
Down from the casement over Arthur, 

smote 
Flame-color, vert and azure, in three 

rays, 
One falling upon each of three fair 

queens. 
Who stood in silence near his throne, 

the friends 
Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with 

bright 
Sweet faces, wlio will help him at liis 

need. 

"And there I saw mage Merlin, 

whose vast wit 
And hundred winters are but as tlie 

hands 
Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 

" And near him stood the Lady of 

the Lake, 
Who knows a subtler magic tlian his 

own — 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
She gave the King his liuge cross- 

hilted sword. 
Whereby to drive the heathen out : a 

mist 
Of incense curl'd about her, and her 

face 
Wellnigh was hidden in the minster 

gloom ; 
But there was heard among the holy 

hymns 
A voice as of the waters, for she dwells 
Down in a deep, calm, whatsoever 

storms 
May shake the world, and when tlie 

surface rolls, 
Hath power to walk the waters like 

our Lord. 

"There likewise I beheld Excalibur 
Before him at his crowning borne, the 

sword 
That rose from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
And Arthur row'd across and took it 

— rich 
With jewels, elfin L'rim, on the hilt. 
Bewildering heart and eye^ — -the blade 

so bright 
That men are blinded by it — on one 

side. 
Graven in the oldest tongue of all this 

world, 
'Take me,' but turn the blade and ye 

shall see. 
And written in the speech ye speak 

yourself. 



' Cast me away ! ' And sad was 

Arthur's face 
Taking it, but old Merlin counsell'd 

him, 
' Take thou and strike ! the time to 

cast away 
Is yet far-off.' So this great brand 

the king 
Took, and by this will beat his f oemen 

down." 

Thereat Leodogram rejoiced, but 

thought 
To sift his doubtings to the last, and 

ask'd. 
Fixing full eyes of question on her 

face, 
"The swallow and the swift are near 

akin. 
But thou artcloser to this noble prince. 
Being his own dear sister ; " and she 

said, 
" Daughter of Gorlo'is and Ygerne am 

I ; " 
" And therefore Arthur's sister ? " 

ask'd the King. 
She answer'd, "These be secret things," 

and sign'd 
To those two sons to pass and let 

them be. 
And Gawain went, and breaking into 

song 
Sprang out, and follow'd by his flying 

hair 
Kan like a colt, and leajit at all he 

saw : 
But Modred laid his ear beside tlie 

doors. 
And there half-heard ; the same that 

afterward 
Struck for the throne, and striking 

found his doom. 

And then the Queen made answer, 

" What know I ? 
For dark my mother was in eyes anci 

hair. 
And dark in hair and eyes am I ; and 

dark 
Was Gorlo'is, yea and dark was Uther 

too, 
Wellnigh to blackness ; but this King 

is fair 
Beyond the race of Britons and of men. 
Moreover, always in vc\y mind I hear 
A cry from out the dawning of my life, 
A mother weeping, and I hear her say, 
' () that ye had some brother, pretty 

one. 
To guard thee on the rough ways of 

the world.'" 

" Ay," said the King, " and hear 3'e 
such a cry ■? 
But when did Arthur chance upon 
thee first ? " 



180 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



"O King!" she cried, "and I will 

tell thee true : 
He found me first when yet a little 

maid : 
Beaten I had been for a little fault 
Whereof I was not guilty ; and out I 

ran 
And flung myself down on a bank of 

heath, 
And hated this fair world and all 

therein, 
And wept, and wish'd that I were 

dead ; and he — 
I know not whether of himself he 

came, 
Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, 

can walk 
Unseen at pleasure — he was at my 

side 
And spake sweet words, and comforted 

my heart. 
And dried my tears, being a child with 

me. 
And many a time he came, and ever- 
more 
As I grew greater grew with me ; and 

sad 
At times he seem'd, and sad with him 

was I, 
/ Stern too at times, and then I loved 

him not. 
But sweet again, and then I loved him 

well. 
And now of late I see him less and 

less, 
But those first days had golden hours 

for me. 
For then I surely thought he would 

be king. 



" But let me tell thee now another 

tale : 
For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as 

they say. 
Died but of late, and sent his cry to 

me. 
To hear him speak before he left hLs 

life. 
Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay 

the mage ; 
And when I enter'd told me that him- 
self 
And Merlin ever served about the 

King, 
Uther, before he died ; and on the 

night 
When Uther in Tintagil past away 
Moaning and wailing for an heir, the 

two 
Left the still King, and passing forth 

to breathe, 
Then from the castle gateway by the 

chasm 
Descending thro' the dismal night — 

a night 



In which the bounds of heaven and 

earth were lost — 
Beheld, so high upon the dreary 

deeps 
It seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape 

thereof 
A dragon wing'd, and all from stem 

to stern 
Briglit witli a shining people on the 

decks, 
And gone as soon as seen. And then 

the two 
Dropt to the cove, and watch'd the 

great sea fall. 
Wave after wave, each mightier than 

the last, 
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half 

the deep 
And full of voices, slowly rose and 

plunged 
Roaring, and all the wave was in a 

flame : 
And down the wave and in the flame 

was borne 
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's 

feet, 
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and 

cried 'The King! 
Here is an heir for Uther ! ' And the 

fringe 
Of that great breaker, sweeping up 

the strand, 
Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the 

word. 
And all at once all round him rose in 

fire. 
So that the child and he were clothed 

in fire. 
And presently thereafter foUow'd 

calm. 
Free sky and stars : ' And this same 

child,' he said, 
' Is he who reigns ; nor could I part 

in peace 
Till this were told.' And saying this 

the seer 
Went thro' the strait and dreadful 

pass of death. 
Not ever to be question'd any more 
Save on the further side; but when I 

met 
Merlin, and ask'd him if these things 

were truth — 
The shining dragon and the naked 

child 
Descending in the glory of the seas — 
He laugh'd as is his wont, and an- 

swcr'd me 
In riddling triplets of old time, and 

said : 

" ' Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow 
in the sky ! 
A young man will be wiser by and by; 
An old man's wit may wander ere he 
die. 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



181 



Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow on 

the lea ! 
And truth is this to me, and tliat to 

tiiee; 
And truth or clothed or naked let it 

be. 



Rain, sun, and rain ! and the free 

blossom blows : 
Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he 

who knows ? 
From the great deep to the great deej) 

he goes.' 




" And down the wave and in the flame was borne 
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet." 



" So Merlin riddling anger'd me ; 

but thou 
Fear not to give this King thine only 

child, 
Guinevere : so great bards of him will 

sing 



Hereafter ; and dark sayings from of 

old 
Ranging and ringing thro' the minds 

of men. 
And echo'd by old folk beside their 

fires 



182 



THE COMING OF ARTJIUK. 



For comfort after their wage-work is 

done, 
Speak of the King ; and Merlin in our 

time 
Hath spoken also, not in jest, and 

sworn 
Tho' men may wound liim that he will 

not die, 
But pass, again to come ; and then or 

now 
latterly smite the heathen underfoot. 
Till these and all men hail him for 

their king." 

She spake and King Leodogran 

rejoiced. 
But musing " Shall I answer yea or 

nay '? " 
Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and 

slept, and saw. 
Dreaming, a slope of land that ever 

grew. 
Field after field, \ip to a height, the 

peak 
Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom 

king, 
Now looming, and now lost ; and on 

the slope 
The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd 

was driven. 
Fire glimpsed ; and all the land from 

roof and rick. 
In drifts of smoke before a rolling 

wind, 
Stream'd to the peak, and mingled 

with the haze 
And made it thicker; while the phan- 
tom king 
Sent out at times a voice ; and here 

or there 
Stood one who pointed toward the 

voice, the rest 
Slew on and burnt, crying, " No king 

of ours. 
No son of Uther, and no king of 

ours ; " 
Till with a wink his dream was 

changed, the haze 
Descended, and the solid earth be- 
came 
As nothing, but the King stood out 

in heaven, 
Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and 

sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias and Bedivere, 
Hac^k to the court of Arthur answer- 
ing yea. 

Then Arthur charged his warrior 

whom he loved 
And honor'd most, Sir Lancelot, to 

ride forth 
And bring the Queen ; — and watch'd 

him from the gates : 
And Lancelot past away among the 

flowers. 



(For then was latter April) and 

return 'd 
Among the flowers, in May, with 

Guinevere. 
To whom arrived, by Dubric the high 

saint, 
Chief of the church in Britain, and 

before 
The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the 

King 
That morn was married, while in stain- 
less white. 
The fair beginners of a nobler time. 
And glorying in their vows and him, 

his knights 
.Stood round him, and rejoicing in his 

joy- 
Far shone the fields of May thro' 

open door. 
The sacred altar blossom'd white with 

May, 
The Sun of May descended on their 

King, 
They gazed on all earth's beauty in 

their Queen, 
Holl'd incense, and there past along 

the hymns 
A voice as of the waters, while the two 
Sware at the shrine of Christ a death- 
less love : 
And Arthur said, " Behold, thy doom 

is mine. 
Let chance what will, I love thee to 

the death ! " 
To whom the Queen replied with 

drooping eyes, 
" King and my lord, I love thee to the 

death ! " 
And holy Dubric spread his hands 

and spake, 
" Reign ye, and live and love, and 

make the world 
Other, and may thy Queen be one 

with thee. 
And all this Order of thy Table 

Round 
Fulfil the boundless purpose of their 

King ! " y 

So Dubric said ; but when they left 
the shrine 

Great Lords from Rome before the 
portal stood. 

In scornful stillness gazing as they 
past; 

Then while they paced a city all on 
fire 

With sun and cloth of gold, the trum- 
pets blew. 

And Arthur's knighthood sang before 
the King : — 

^•,' Blow trumpet, for the world is 

white with May ; 
Blow trumpet, the long night hath 

roll'd away ! 



■\ 



GARETH AND LYiVETTE. 



183 



Blow thro' the living world — ' Let 
the King reign.' 

" Shall Rome or Heathen rule in 

Arthur's realm 1 
Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe 

upon helm, 
Fall battleaxe, and flasl^ brand ! Let 

the King reign. 

" Strike for the King and live ! his 

knights have heard 
That God hath told the King a secret 

word. 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let 

the King reign. 

"Blow trumpet! he will lift us 

from the dust. 
Blow trumpet ! live the strength and 

die the lust ! 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Let 

the King reign. 

" Strike for the King and die ! and 

if thou diest. 
The King is King, and ever wills the 

highest. 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! 

Let the King reign. 

" Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his 

May! 
Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by 

day! 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! 

Let the King reign. 

" The King will follow Christ, and 
we the King 



In whom high God hath breathed a 

secret thing. 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let 

the King reign. ";^ 

So sang the knighthood, moving to 

their hall. 
There at the banquet those great 

Lords from Rome, 
The slowly-fading mistress of the 

world. 
Strode in, and claim'd their tribute as 

of yore. 
But Arthur spake, " Behold, for these 

have sworn 
To wage my wars, and worship me 

their King ; 
The old order changeth, yielding place 

to new ; 
And we that fight for our fair father 

Christ, 
Seeing that ye be grown too weak and 

old 
To drive the heathen from your 

Roman wall, 
No tribute will we pay " : so those 

great lords 
Drew back in wrath, and Arthur 

strove with Rome. 
And xlrthur and his knighthood for 

a space 
Were all one will, and thro' that 

strength the King 
Drew in the petty princedoms under 

him. 
Fought, and in twelve great battles 

overcame 
The heathen hordes, and made a realm 

and reign'd. 



THE ROUND TABLE. 



GAKBTH AND LTNETTE. 
GERAINT AND ENID. 
MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 
LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 

GARETH AND LYNETTE. 

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, 
And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful 

spring 
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted 

Pine 
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl'd 

away. 
" How he went down," said Gareth, 

" as a false knight 
Or evil king before my lance if lance 
Were mine to use — O senseless cata- 
ract. 
Bearing all down in thy precipitancy — 
And yet thou art but swollen with 
cold snows 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 
PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 
THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 
(iUINEVERB. 

And mine is living blood : thou dost 

His will. 
The Maker's, and not knowest, and 1 

that know. 
Have strength and wit, in my good 

mother's hall 
Linger with vacillating obedience, 
Prison'd, and kept and coax'd and 

whistled to — 
Since the good mother holds me still 

a child ! 
Good mother is bad mother unto 

me ! 
A worse were better ; yet no worse 

would I. 
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put 

force 



184 



GAKETH AND LYjVETTE. 



To weary lier ears with one continuous 

prayer, 
Until she let me fly discaged to 

sweep 
In ever-highering eagle-circles up 
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence 

swoop 
Down upon all things base, and dash 

them dead, 
A knight of Arthur, working out his 

will, 
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, 

when he came 
With Modred hither in the summer- 
time, 
Ask'd me to tilt with him, the proven 

knight. 
Modred for want of worthier was the 

judge. 
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he 

said, 
' Thou hast half prevail'd against me,' 

said so — he — 
Tho' Modred biting his thin lips was 

mute, 
For he is alway sullen : what care I ? " 

And Gareth went, and hovering 

round her chair 
Ask'd, " Mother, tho' ye count me still 

the child. 
Sweet mother, do ye love the child ? " 

She laugh'd, 
" Thou art but a wild-goose to ques- 
tion it." 
" Then, mother, an ye love the child," 

he said, 
" Being a goose and rather tame than 

wild, 
Hear the child's story." " Yea, my 

well-beloved. 
An 'twere but of goose and golden 

And Gareth answer'd her with kind- 
ling eyes, 
" Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg 

of mine 
Was finer gold than any goose can 

lay; 
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid 
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a 

palm 
As glitters gilded in thy Book of 

Hours. 
And there was ever haunting round 

the palm 
A lusty youth, but poor, who often 

saw 
The splendor sparkling from aloft, 

and thought 
' An I could climb and lay my hand 

upon it. 
Then were I wealthier than a leash of 

kings,' 



But ever when he reach'd a hand to 

climb. 
One, that had loved him from his 

childhood, caught 
And stay'd him, ' Climb not lest thou 

break thy neck, 
I charge thee by my love,' and so the 

hoy, • 
Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor 

brake his neck. 
But brake his vcrj-^ heart in pining 

for it. 
And past away." 

To whom the mother said, 
"True love, sweet son, had risk'd him- 
self and climb'd. 
And handed down the golden treasure 
to him." 

And Gareth answer'd her with kind- 
ling eyes, 
" Gold ? said I gold ? — ay then, why 

he, or she. 
Or whoso'er it was, or half the world 
Had ventured — had the thing I spake 

of been 
Mere gold — but this was all of that 

true steel. 
Whereof they forged the brand Ex- 

calibur. 
And lightnings play'd about it in the 

storm. 
And all the little fowl were flurried 

at it. 
And there were cries and clashings in 

the nest. 
That sent him from his senses : let me 

go." 

Then Bellicent bemoan'd herself 
and said, 

" Hast thou no pity upon my loneli- 
ness ? 

Lo, where thy father Lot beside the 
hearth 

Lies like a log, and all but smoulder'd 
out! 

For ever since when traitor to the 
King 

He fought against him in the Barons' 
war, 

And Arthur gave him back his terri- 
tory, 

His age hath slowly droopt, and now 
lies there 

A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburia- 
ble. 

No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor 
speaks, nor knows. 

And both thy brethren are in Arthur's 
hall. 

Albeit neither loved with that full 
love 

I feel for thee, nor worthy such a 
love : 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



185 



Stay tliereforc thou ; red berries charm 

the bird, 
And thee, jnine innocent, the jousts, 

the wars, 
Who never knewest finger-ache, nor 

pang 
Of wrench'd or broken limb — an often 

chance 
In those brain-stunning sliocks, and 

tourney-falls, 
Frights to ray heart ; but stay : follow 

tlie deer 
By these tall firs and our fast-falling 

burns ; 
So make thy manhood mightier day 

by day ; 
Sweet is the chase : and I will seek 

thee out 
Some comfortable bride and fair, to 

grace 
Thj- climbing life, and cherish my 

prone year. 
Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness 
I know not thee, myself, nor any- 
thing. 
Stay, my best son ! j-e are yet more 

boy than man." 

Then Gareth, " An ye hold me yet 

for child. 
Hear yet once more the story of the 

child. 
For, mother, there was once a King, 

like ours. 
The prince his heir, when tall and 

marriageable, 
Ask'd for a bride ; and thereupon the 

King 
Set two before him. One was fair, 

strong, arm'd — 
But to be won by force — and many 

men 
Desired her ; one, good lack, no man 

desired. 
And these were the conditions of the 

King : 
That save he won the first by force, 

he needs 
Must wed that other, whom no man 

desired, 
A red-faced bride who knew herself 

so vile. 
That evermore she long'd to hide her- 
self. 
Nor fronted man or woman, eye to 

eye — 
Yea — some she cleaved to, but they 

died of her. 
And one — they call'd her Fame ; and 

one, — Mother, 
How can y^ keep me tether'd to you 

— Shame ! 
Man am I grown, a man's work must 

I do. 
Follow the deer 1 follow the Christ, 

the King, 



Live pure, speala true, right wrong, 

follow the King — 
Else, wherefore born '? " 

To whozn the mother said, 
" Sweet son, for there be many who 

deem him not. 
Or will not deem him, wliollj' proven 

King — 
Albeit in mine own heart I knew him 

King, 
When I was frequent with him in my 

youth. 
And heard him Kinglj- speak, and 

doubted him 
No more than he, himself; but felt 

him mine. 
Of closest kin to me : yet — wilt thou 

leave 
Thine easeful biding here, and risk 

thine all. 
Life, limbs, for one that is not proven 

King '? 
Stay, till the cloud that settles round 

his birth 
Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet 

son." 

And Gareth answer'd quickly, " Not 

an hour. 
So that ye yield me — I will walk thro' 

fire. 
Mother, to gain it ^ your full leave to 

go. 
Not proven, who swept the dust of 

ruin'd Konie 
From off the threshold of the realm, 

and crush 'd 
The Idolaters, and made the peoi^le 

free? 
Who should be King save him who 

makes us free ? " 

So when the Queen, who long had 

sought in vain 
To break him from the intent to which 

he grew. 
Found her son's will unwaveringly 

one. 
She answer'd craftily, " Will ye walk 

thro' fire % 
Who walks thro' fire will hardl}^ heed 

the smoke. 
Ay, go then, an ye must : only one 

proof. 
Before thou ask the King to make thee 

knight, 
Of thine obedience and thy love to 

me. 
Thy mother, — I demand." 

And Gareth cried, 
"A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. 
Nay — quick ! the proof to ijrove me 
to the quick ! " 



186 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



But slowly spaki^ the mother look- 
ing at him, 

"Prince, thou shalt go disguised to 
Artliur's hall, 

And hire thyself to serve for meats 
and drinks 

Among the scullions and the kitchen- 
knaves, 

And those that hand the dish across 
the bar. 

Xor shalt thou tell thy name to any- 
one. 

And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth 
and a day." 

For so the Queen believed that when 
her son 

Beheld his only way to glory lead 

Low down thro' villain kitchen-vas- 
salage, 

Her own true Gareth was too princely- 
proud 

To pass thereby ; so should he rest 
with her, 

Closed in her castle from the sound of 
arms. 

Silent awhile was Gareth, then 

replied, 
"The tin-all in person may be free in 

soul. 
And I shall see the jousts. Thy son 

am I, 
And since thou art my mother, must 

obey. 
I therefore yield me freely to thy will ; 
For hence will I, disguised, and hire 

myself 
To serve with scullions and with 

kitchen-knaves ; 
Nor tell my name to any — no, not the 

King." 

Gareth awhile linger'd. The 

mother's eye 
Full of the wistful fear that he would 

go, 
And turning toward him wheresoe'er 

he turn'd, 
Perplext his outward purpose, till an 

hour. 
When waken'd by the wind which with 

full voice 
Swept bellowing thro' the darkness on 

to dawn. 
He rose, and out of slumber calling 

two 
That still had tended on him from his 

birth, 
Before the wakeful mother heard him, 

went. 

The three were clad like tillers of 
tlie soil. 
Southward tiiey set their faces. The 
birds made 



Melod}^ on branch, and melody in mid 

air. 
The damp hill-slopes were quicken'd 

into green. 
And the live green had kindled into 

flowers, 
For it was past the time of Easterday. 

So, when their feet were planted on 

the plain 
That broaden 'd toward the base of 

Camelot, 
Far off they saw the silver-misty morn 
Rolling her smoke about the Eoyal 

mount. 
That rose between the forest and the 

field. 
At times the summit of the high city 

flash'd ; 
At times the spires and turrets half- 
way down 
Prick'd thro' the mist ; at times the 

great gate shone 
Only, that open'd on the field below : 
Anon, the whole fair city had disap- 

pear'd. 

Then those who went with Garetli 

were amazed. 
One crying, " Let us go no further, 

lord. 
Here is a city of Enchanters, built 
By fairy kings." The second echo'd 

him, 
"Lord, we have heard from our wise 

man at home 
To Northward, that this King is not 

the King, 
But only changeling out of Fairy- 
land, 
Who drave the heathen hence by 

sorcery 
And Merlin's glamour." Then the fixst 

again, 
" Lord, there is no such city anywhere. 
But all a vision." 

Gareth answer'd them 
With laughter, swearing he had 

glamour enow 
In his own l)lood, his princedom, youth 

and hopes. 
To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian 

sea ; 
So push'd them all unwilling toward 

the gate. 
And there was no gate like it inider 

heaven. 
For barefoot on the keystone, which 

was lined 
And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave, 
The Lady of the Lake stood : all her 

dress 
Wept from her sides as water flowing 

away ; 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



187 



But like the cross her great and goodly 

arms 
Stretch'd under all the cornice and 

upheld : 
And drops of water fell from either 

hand ; 
And down from one a sword was hung, 

from one 
A censer, either worn with wind and 

storm ; 
And o'er h^r breast floated the sacred 

fish; 
And in the space to left of her, and 

right, 
"Were Arthur's wars in weird devices 

done, 
New things and old co-twisted, as if 

Time 
Were nothing, so inveterately, that 

men 
Were giddy gazing there; and over 

all 
High on the top were those three 

Queens, the friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at 

his need. 

Then those with Garcth for so long 

a space 
Stared at the figures, that at last it 

seem'd 
The dragon-boughts and elvish em- 

blemings 
Began to move, seethe, twine and 

curl : they call'd 
To Gareth, " Lord, the gateway is 

alive." 

And Gareth likewise on them fixt his 

eyes 
So long, that ev'n to him they seem'd 

to move. 
Out of the city a blast of music peal'd. 
Back from the gate started the three, 

to wliom 
From out thereunder came an ancient 

man. 
Long-bearded, saying, " Who be ye, 

my sons ? " 

Then Gareth, " We be tillers of the 

soil. 
Who leaving share in furrow come to 

see 
The glories of our .King : but these, 

my men, 
(Your city moved so weirdly in the 

mist) 
Doubt if the King be King at all, or 

come 
From Fairyland ; and whether this 

be built 
By magic, and by fairy Kings and 

Queens ; 
Or whether there be any city at all, 
Or all a vision : and tliis music now 



Hath scared them both, but tell thou 
these the truth." 

Then that old Seer made answer 

playing on liim 
And saying, " Son, I have seen the 

good ship sail 
Keel upward and mast downward in 

the heavens, 
And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air : 
And here is truth ; but an it please 

thee not. 
Take thou the truth as thou hast told 

it me. 
For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King 
And Fairy Queens have built the city, 

son ; 
They came from outa sacred mountain- 
cleft 
Toward the sunrise, each with harp 

in hand. 
And built it to the music of their harps. 
And as thou sayest it is enchanted, 

son. 
For there is nothing in it as it seems 
Saving the King ; tho' some there be 

that hold 
The King a shadow, and the city real : 
Yet take thou heed of him, for, so 

thou pass 
Beneath this archway, then wilt thou 

become 
A thrall to his enchantments, for the 

King 
Will bind thee by such vows, as is a 

shame 
A man should not be bound by, yet 

the which 
No man can keep ; but, so thou dread 

to swear. 
Pass not beneath this gateway, but 

abide 
Without, among the cattle of the 

field. • 
For an ye heard a music, like enow 
They are building still, seeing the city 

is built 
To music, therefore never built at all, 
And therefore built for ever. 

Gareth spake 
Anger'd, " Old Master, reverence thine 

own beard 
That looks as white as utter truth, 

and seems 
Wellnigh as long as thou art statured 

tall ! 
Why mockest thou the stranger that 

hath been 
To thee fair-spoken ? " 

But the Seer replied, 
" Know ye not then the Riddling of 

the Bards 1 
'Confusion, and illusion, and relation. 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion ' '. 



188 



CARET H AND LYNETTE. 



I mock thee not but as thou mockest 

me, 
And all that see thee, for thou art not 

who 
Thou seeniest, but I know thee who 

thou art. 
And now thou goest up to mock the 

King, 
AYho cannot brook the shadow of any 

lie." 

Unmockingly the mocker ending 
here 

Turn'd to the right, and past along 
the plain; 

Whom Gareth looking after said, " My 
men. 

Our one white lie sits like a little ghost 

Here on the threshold of our enter- 
prise. 

Let love be blamed for it, nor she, nor 
I: 

AVell, we will make amends." 

With all good cheer 
He spake and laugh'd, then enter'd 

with his twain 
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces 
And stately, rich in emblem and the 

work 
Of ancient kings who did their days in 

stone ; 
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at 

Arthur's court, 
Knowing all arts, had touch'd, and 

everywhere 
At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessen- 
ing peak 
And pinnacle, and had made it spire 

to heaven. 
And ever and anon a knight would pass 
Outward, or inward to the hall : his 

arms 
Clash'd ; and the soind was good to 

Gareth's ear. 
And out of bower and casement shyly 

glanced 
Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars 

of love ; 
And all about a healthful people stept 
As in the presence of a gracious king. 

Then into hall Gareth ascending 

heard 
A voice, the voice of Arthur, and be- 
held 
Far over heads in that long-vaulted 

hall 
The splendor of the presence of the 

King 
Throned, and delivering doom — and 

look'd no more — 
But felt his young heart hammering 

in his ears. 
And thought, " For this half-shadow 

of a lie 



The truthful King will doom me when 

I speak." 
Yet pressing on, tho' all in fear to find 
Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one 
Nor other, but in all the listening eyes 
Of those tall knights, that ranged 

about the throne, 
Clear honor shining like the dewy star 
Of dawn, and faith in their great King, 

with pure 
Affection, and the light of victory, 
And glory gain'd, and evermore to 

gain. 

Then came a widow crying to the 
King, 

" A boon. Sir King ! Thy father, 
Uther, reft 

From my dead lord a field with vio- 
lence : 

For howsoe'er at first he proffer'd gold. 

Yet, for the field was pleasant in our 
eyes, 

We yielded not; and then he reft us 
of it 

Perforce, and left us neither gold nor 
field." 

Said Arthur, " Whether would ye ? 
gold or field ? " 

To whom the woman weejjing, " Nay, 
my lord. 

The field was pleasant in my hus- 
band's eye." 

And Arthur, " Have thy pleasant 

field again, 
And thrice the gold for Uther's use 

thereof, 
According to the years. No boon is 

here, 
But justice, so thy say be proven 

true. 
Accursed, who from the wrongs his 

father did 
Would shape himself a right ! " 

And while she past, 
Came yet another widow crying to 

him, 
" A boon. Sir King ! Thine enemy. 

King, am I. 
AVith thine own hand thou slewest my 

dear lord, 
A knight of Uther in the Barons' war. 
When Lot and many another rose and 

fought 
Against thee, saying thouwert basely 

born. 
I held with these, and loathe to ask 

thee aught. 
Yet lo ! my husband's brother had my 

son 
Thrall'd in his castle, and hath starved 

him dead ; 
And standeth seized of that inheritance 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



189 



Which thou that slewest the sire hast 

left the son. 
So tho' I scarce can ask it tliee for 

hate, 
Grant me some knight to do the battle 

for me, 
Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for 

my son." 

Then strode a good knight forward, 
crj'ing to him, 

" A boon, Sir King ! I am her kins- 
man, I. 

Give me to right her wrong, and slay 
the man." 

Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, 

and cried, 
" A boon. Sir King ! ev'n that thou 

grant her none. 
This railer, that hath mock'd thee in 

full hall — 
None ; or the wholesome boon of gyve 

and gag." 

But Arthur, " We sit King, to help 

the wrong'd 
Thro' all our realm. The woman loves 

her lord. 
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves 

and hates ! 
The kings of old had doom'd thee to 

the flames, 
Aurelius Emrys would have scourged 

thee dead, 
And Uther slit thy tongue : but get 

thee hence — 
Lest that rough humor of the kings of 

old 
Return upon me ! Thou that art her 

kin. 
Go likewise ; lay him low and slay 

him not, 
But bring him here, that I may judge 

the right. 
According- to the justice of the King : 
Then, be he guilty, by that deathless 

King 
Who lived and died for men, the man 

shall die." 

Then came in hall the messenger of 

Mark, 
A name of evil savor in the land. 
The Cornish king. In either hand he 

bore 
What dazzled all, and shone far-off as 

shines 
A field of charlock in the sudden sun 
Between two showers, a cloth of palest 

gold, 
Which down he laid before the throne, 

and knelt. 
Delivering, that his lord, the vassal 

king. 
Was ev'n upon his way to Camelot ; 



For having heard that Arthur of his 

grace 
Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, 

knight. 
And, for himself was of the greater 

state. 
Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord 
Would yield him this large honor all 

the more; 
Sopray'd him well to accept this cloth 

of gold. 
In token of true heart and fealty. 

Then Artliur cried to rend the cloth, 

to rend 
In pieces, and so cast it on the 

hearth. 
An oak-tree smoulder'd there. " The 

goodly knight ! 
What ! shall the shield of Mark stand 

among these ? " 
For, midway down the side of that long 

hall 
A stately pile, — whereof along the 

front. 
Some blazon'd, some but carven, and 

some blank. 
There ran a treble range of stony 

shields, — 
Rose, and high-arching overbrow'd the 

hearth. 
And under every shield a knight was 

named : 
For this was Arthur's custom in his 

hall ; 
When some good knight had done one 

noble deed. 
His arms were carven only ; but if 

twain 
His arms were blazon'd also; but if 

none 
The shield was blank and bare without 

a sign 
l»lving the name beneath ; and Gareth 

saw 
The shield of Gawain blazon'd rich and 

bright. 
And Modred's blank as death ; and 

Arthur cried 
To rend the cloth and cast it on the 

hearth. 

" More like are we to reave him of 

his crown 
Than make him knight because men 

call him king. 
The kings we found, ye know we 

stay'd their hands 
From war among themselves, but left 

them kings ; 
Of whom were any bounteous, merci- 
ful, 
Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, 

them we enroll'd 
Among lis, and they sit within our 

hall. 



190 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



But Mark liath tarnish'd the great 
name of king, 

As Mark would sully the low state of 
churl : 

And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of 
gold, 

Eeturn, and meet, and hold him from 
our eyes. 

Lest we should lap him up in cloth of 
lead, 

Silenced for ever — craven — a man 
of plots, 

Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside 
ambushings — 

No fault of thine : let Kay the senes- 
chal 

Look to thy wants, and send thee sat- 
isfied — 

Accursed, who strikes nor lets the 
hand he seen ! " 

And many another suppliant crying 

came 
With noise of raA^age wrought by 

beast and man. 
And evermore a knight would ride 

away. 

Last, Gareth leaning both hands 

heavily 
Down on the shoulders of the twain, 

his men, 
Approach'd between them toward the 

King, and ask'd, 
"A boon, Sir King (his voice was all 

ashamed),. 
For see ye not how weak and hunger- 
worn 
I seem — leaning on these ? grant me 

to serve 
Tor meat and drink among thy 

kitchen-knaves 
A twelvemonth and a day, nor seGfe 

my name. 
Hereafter I will fight." 

To him the King, 
"A goodly youth and worth a good- 
lier boon ! 
But so thou wilt no goodlier, then 

must Kay, 
The master of the meats and drinks, 
be thine." 

He rose and past ; then Kay, a man 
of mien 
Wan-sallow as the plant that feels 

itself 
Root-bitten by white lichen, 

" Lo ye now ! 
This fellow hath broken from some 

Abbey, Avhere, 
God wot, he had not beef and brewis 

enow, 



However that might chance ! but an 

he work. 
Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, 
And sleeker shall he shine tlian any 

hog." 

Then Lancelot standing near, " Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound thouknowest, and gray, 

and all the hounds ; 
A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost 

not know : 
Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair 

and fine. 
High nose, a nostril large and fine, 

and hands 
Large, fair and fine ! — some young 

lad's mystery — 
But, or from siieei^cot or king's hall, 

the boy 
Is noble-natured. Treat him with all 

grace, 
Lest he should come to shame thy 

judging of him." 

Then Kay, " What murmurest thou 

of mystery ? 
Think ye this fellow will poison the 

King's dish ? 
Nay, for he spake too fool-like : 

mystery ! 
Tut, an the lad were noble, he had 

ask'd 
For horse and armor : fair and fine, 

forsooth ! 
Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands ? but see 

thou to it 
That thine own fineness, Lancelot, 

some fine day 
Undo thee not — and leave my man 

to me." 

So Gareth all for glory underwent 
The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage ; 
Ate with young lads his portion by 

the door, « 

And couch'd at night with grimy 

kitchen-knaves. 
And Lancelot ever spake him pleas- 
antly, 
But Kay the seneschal who loved him 

not 
Would hustle and harry him, and 

labor him 
Beyond his comrade of the hearth, 

and set 
To turn the broach, draw water, or 

hew wood. 
Or grosser tasks ; and Gareth bow'd 

himself 
With all obedience to the King, and 

wrought 
All kind of service with a noble 

ease 
That graced the lowliest act in doing 

it. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



191 



And when the thralls had talk among 

themselves, 
And one would praise the love that 

linkt the King 
And Lancelot — how the King had 

saved his life 
In battle twice, and Lancelot once the 

King's — 
For Lancelot was the first in Tourna- 
ment, 
But Arthur mightiest on the battle- 
field— 
Gareth was glad. Or if some other 

told, 
How once the wandering forester at 

dawn, 
Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas, 
On Caer-Eryri's highest found the 

King, 
A naked babe, of whom the Prophet 

spake, 
" He passes to the Isle Avilion, 
He passes and is heal'd and cannot 

die " — 
Gareth was glad. But if their talk 

were foul, 
Then would he whistle rapid as any 

lark. 
Or carol some old roundelay, and so 

loud 
That first they mock'd, but, after, 

reverenced him. 
Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale 
Of knights, who sliced a red life-bub- 
bling way 
Thro' twenty folds of twisted dragon, 

held 
All in a gap-mouth'd circle his good 

mates 
Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, 
Chann'd ; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, 

would come 
Blustering upon them, like a sudden 

wind 
Among dead leaves, and drive them 

all apart. 
Or when the thralls had sport among 

themselves. 
So there were any trial of mastery, 
He, by two yards in casting bar or 

stone 
"Was covmted best; and if there 

chanced a joust, 
So that SirKay nodded him leave to go, 
Would hurry thither, and when he 

saw the knights 
Clash like the coming and retiring 

wave. 
And the spear spring, and good horse 

reel, the boy 
Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. 

So for a month he wrought among 
the thralls ; 
But in the weeks that foUow'd, the 
good Queen, 



Repentant of the word she made him 
swear. 

And saddening in her childless castle, 
sent. 

Between the in-crescei|>; and de-cres- 
cent moon, 

Arms for her son, and loosed liim from 
his vow. 

This, Gareth hearing from a squire 

of Lot 
With whom he used to play at tourney 

once. 
When both were children, and in 

lonely haunts 
Would scratch a ragged oval on the 

sand. 
And each at either dash from either 

end — 
Shame never made girl redder than 

Gareth joy. 
He laugh'd ; he sprang. " Out of the 

smoke, at once 
I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's 

knee — 
These news be mine, none other's — 

nay, the King's — 
Descend into the city : " whereon he 

sought 
The King alone, and found, and told 

him all. 

" I have stagger'd thy strong Ga- 

wain in a tilt 
For pastime; yea, he said it: joust 

can I. • 

Make me thy knight — in secret ! let 

my name 
Be hidd'n, and give me the first quest, 

I spring 
Like flame from ashes." 

Here the King's calm eye 
Fell on, and check'd, and made him 

flush, and bow 
Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer'd 

him, 
" Son, the good mother let me know 

thee here. 
And sent her wish that I would yield 

thee thine. 
Make thee my knight % my knights 

are sworn to vows 
Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness, 
And, loving, utter faithfulness in love, 
And uttermost obedience to the King." 

Then Gareth, lightly springing from 
his knees, 

" My King, for hardihood I can prom- 
ise thee. 

For uttermost obedience make de- 
mand 

Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, 

No mellow master of the meats and 
drinks ! 



192 



CARET H AND LYNETTE. 



And as for love, God wot, I love not j 

yet, 

But love I shall, God willing." 

And the King — 
" ]Make thee n^' knight in secret ? yea, 

but he, 
Our noblest brother, and our truest 

man, 
And one with me in all, he needs 

must know." 

"Let Lancelot know, my Iving, let 
Lancelot know, 
Thy noblest and thy truest ! " 

And the King — 
" But wherefore would ye men should 

wonder at 3'ou ? 
Nay, rather for the sake of me, their 

King, 
And the deed's sake my knighthood 

do the deed, 
Than to be noised of." 

Merrily Gareth ask'd, 
" Have I not earn'd my cake in baking 

of it? 
Let be my name until I make my 

name ! 
My deeds will speak : it is but for a 

day." 
So with a kindly hand on Gareth's 

arm 
Smiled t^ie ■,!i ,: King, and half- 

Unv '}':X\:\^ 

Lovinor •! - .-ly youthhood yielded 

Then, ai. summoning Lancelot 

privily, 
" I have given him the first quest : he 

is not proven. 
Look therefore when he calls for this 

in hall. 
Thou get to horse and follow him far 

away. 
Cover the lions on thy shield, and see 
Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en 

nor slain." 

Then that same day there past into 
the hall 

A damsel of high lineage, and a brow 

May-blossom, and a cheek of apple- 
blossom. 

Hawk-eyes ; and lightly was her slen- 
der nose 

Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower ; 

She into hall past with her page and 
cried, 

" King, for thou hast driven the 
foe without, 
See to the foe within! bridge, ford, 
beset 



By bandits, everyone that owns a 
tower 

The Lord for half a league. Why sit 
ye there ? 

Kest would I not. Sir King, an I were 
king. 

Till ev'n the lonest hold were all as 
free 

From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar- 
cloth 

From that best blood it is a sin to 
spill." 

"Comfort thyself," said Arthur, "I 

nor mine 
Rest; so my knighthood keep the 

vows they swore, 
The wastest moorland of our realm 

shall be 
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. 
What is thy name 7 thy need "? " 

" My name ? " she said — 

" Lynette my name ; noble ; my need, 
a knight 

To combat for my sister, Lyonors, 

A lady of high lineage, of great lands. 

And comely, yea, and conielier than 
myself. 

She liA-es in Castle Perilous : a river 

Euns in three loops about her living- 
place ; 

And o'er it are three passings, and 
three knights 

Defend the passings, brethren, and a 
fourth 

And of tliat four the mightiest, holds 
her stay'd 

In her own castle, and so besieges her 

To break her will, and make her wed 
with him : 

And but delaj's his puri^ort till thou 
send 

To do the battle with him, thy chief 
man 

Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to over- 
throw. 

Then wed, with glory : but she will 
not wed 

Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. 

Kow therefore have I come for 
Lancelot." 

Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth 

ask'd, 
" Damsel, ye know this Order lives to 

crush 
All wrongers of the Eealm. But say, 

these four, 
Who be they 1 What the fashion of 

the men ? " 

" They be of foolish fashion, O Sir 
King, 
The fashion of that old knight- 
errantry 



CARET H AND LYNETTE. 



193 



Who ride altroad and do Ijut wiiat 

they will; 
Courteous or bestial from the moment, 

such 
As have nor law nor king ; and three 

of these 
Proud in their fantasy call themselves 

the Day, 
Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and 

Evening-Star, 
Being strong fools ; and never a whit 

more wise 
The fourth who alway rideth arm'd 

in black, 
A huge man-beast of boundless sav- 
agery. 
He names liiraself the Night, and 

oftener Death, 
And wears a helmet mounted witli a 

skull. 
And bears a skeleton figured on his 

arms, 
To show that who may slay or scape 

the three 
Slain by himself shall enter endless 

night. 
And all these four be fools, but mighty 
• men, 

And therefore am I come for Lance- 
lot." 

Hereat Sir Gareth call'd from where 
he rose, 

A head with kindling eyes above the 
throng, 

" A boon. Sir King — this quest ! " 
then — for he mark'd 

Kay near him groaning like a wounded 
bull — 

" Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen- 
knave am I, 

And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks 
am I, 

And I can topple over a hundi-ed such. 

Thy promise. King," and Arthur glanc- 
ing at him, 

Brought down a momentary brow. 
" Rough, sudden. 

And pardonable, worthy to be knight — 

Go, therefore," and all hearers Nvere 
amazed. 

But on the damsel's forehead shame, 

pride, wrath 
Slew the May-white : she lifted either 

arm, 
" Fie on thee, King ! I ask'd for thy 

chief knight. 
And thou hast given me but a kitchen- 
knave." 
Then ere a man in hall could stay her, 

turn'd. 
Fled down the lane of access to the 

King, 
Took horse, descended the slope street, 

and past 



The weird white gate, and paused with- 

out, beside 
The field of tourney, murmuring 

" kitchen-knave." 

Now two great entries open'd from 

the hall, 
At one end one, that gave upon a 

range 
Of leyel pavement where the King 

would pace 
At sunrise, gazing over plain and 

wood ; 
And down from this a lordly stairway 

sloped 
Till lost in blowing trees and tops of 

towers ; 
And out by this main doorway past 

the King. 
But one was counter to the hearth, 

and rose 
High that the highest-crested helm 

could ride 
Therethro' nor graze : and by this entry 

fled 
The damsel in her wrath, and on to 

this 
Sir Gareth strode, and saw without 

the door 
King Arthur's gift, the worth of half 

a town, 
A warhorse of the best, and near it 

stood 
The two that out of north had fol- 

low'd him : 
This bare a maiden shield, a casque ; 

that held 
The horse, the spear ; whereat Sir 

Gareth loosed 
A cloak that dropt from collar-bone 

to heel, 
A cloth of roughest web, and cast it 

down. 
And from it like a fuel-smother'd fire, 
That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and 

flash'd as those 
Dull-coated things, that making slide 

apart 
Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath 

there burns 
A jewell'd harness, ere they pass and 

fly- 

So Gareth ere he parted flasli'd in 

arms. 
Then as he donn'd the helm, and took 

the shield 
And mounted horse and graspt a 

spear, of grain 
Storm-strengthen'd on a windy site, 

and tipt 
With trenchant steel, around him 

slowly prest 
The people, wliile from out of kitchen 

came 
The thralls in throng, and seeing who 

had work'd 



194 



CARET H AND LYNETTE. 



Lustier than any, and whom they could 
but love. 

Mounted in arms, threw up their caps 
and cried, 

" God bless the King, and all his 
fellowship ! " 

And on thro' lanes of shouting Gareth 
rode 

Down the slope street, and past with- 
out the gate. 

So Gareth past with joy; but as the 

cur 
Pluckt from the cur he fights with, 

ere his cause 
Be cool'd by fighting, follows, being 

named. 
His owner, but remembers all, and 

growls 
Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the 

door 
Mutter'd in scorn of Gareth whom he 

used 
To harry and hustle. 

" Bound upon a quest 
With horse and arms — the King hath 

past his time — 
My scullion knave ! Thralls to your 

work again, 
For an your fire be low ye kindle 

mine ! 
Will there be dawn in West and eve 

in East ? 
Begone ! — my knave ! — belike and 

like enow 
Some old head-blow not heeded in his 

youth 
So shook his wits they wander in his 

prime — 
Crazed ! how the villain lifted up his 

voice, 
Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen- 
knave. 
Tut : he was tame and meek enow with 

me. 
Till pcacock'd up with Lancelot's 

noticing. 
Well — I will after my loud knave, 

and learn 
Whether he know me for his master 

yet. 
Out of the smoke he came, and so my 

lance 
Hold, by God's grace, he shall into 

the mire — 
Thence, if the King awaken from his 

craze, 
Into the smoke again." 

But Lancelot said, 
" Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against 

the King, • 
For that did never he whereon j-e rail. 
But ever meekly served the King in 

thee? 



Abide : take counsel ; for this lad is 

great 
And lusty, and knowing both of lance 

and sword." 
" Tut, tell not me," said Kay, "ye are 

overfine 
To mar stout knaves with foolish 

courtesies : " 
Then mounted, on thro' silent faces 

rode 
Down the slope city, and out beyond 

the gate. 

But by the field of tourney linger- 
ing yet 

Mutter'd the damsel, " Wherefore did 
the King 

Scorn me ? for, were Sir Lancelot 
lackt, at least 

He might have yielded to me one of 
those 

Who tilt for lady's love and glory 
here, 

Rather than — O sweet heaven ! O 
fie upon him — 

His kitchen-knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth dre^ 

(And there were none but few goodlier 
than he) 

Shining in arms, "Damsel, the quest 
is mine. 

Lead, and I follow." She thereat, as 
one 

That smells a f oul-flesh'd agaric in the 
holt. 

And deems it carrion of some wood- 
land thing. 

Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender 
nose 

With petulant thumb and finger, 
shrilling, " Hence ! 

Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen- 
grease. 

And look who comes behind," for 
there was Kay. 

" Knowest thou not me ? thy master ? 
I am Kay. 

We lack thee by the hearth." 

And Gareth to him, 
" Master no more ! too well I know 

thee, ay — 
The most ungentle knight in Arthur's 

hall." 
" Have at thee then," said Kay : they 

shock'd, and Kay 
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried 

again, 
" Lead, and I follow," and fast away 

she fled. 

But after sod and shingle ceased to 

fly 

Behind her, and the heart of her good 
horse 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



195 



Was nigh to burst with violence of the 

beat, 
Perforce she stay'd, and overtaken 

spoke. 

" What doest thou, scullion, in vay 

fellowship ? 
Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught 

the more 
Or love thee better, that by some 

device 
Full cowardly, or by mere unhappi- 

ness. 
Thou Iiast overtlirown and slain tliy 

master — thou ! — 
Dish-washer and broaclvturner, loon ! 

— to me 
Thou smellest all of kitchen as be- 
fore." 

" Damsel," Sir Gareth answer'd 

gently, " say 
Wliate'er ye Avill, but whatsoe'er ye 

say, 
I leave not till I finish this fair quest, 
Or die tlierefore." 

" Ay, wilt thou finish it ? 
Sweet lord, how like a noble kniglit he 

talks ! 
The listening rogue liath caught the 

manner of it. 
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met 

with, knave. 
And then by such a one that thou for 

all 
The kitchen brewis that was eversupt 
Slialt not once dare to look liim in the 

face." 

" I shall assay," said Gareth witli a 

smile 
Tliat madden'd her, and away she 

flash'd again 
Down the long avenues of a boundless 

wood. 
And Gareth following was again be- 

knaved. 

" Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss'd 

the only way 
Where Arthur's men are set along the 

wood ; 
Tlie wood is nigh as full of thieves as 

leaves : 
If both be slain, I am rid of thee ; but 

yet, 
Sir Scullion, canst thou use that sjiit 

of thine ? 
Fight, an thou canst : I have miss'd 

the only way." 

So till the dusk that foUow'd even- 
song 
Eode on the two, reviler and reviled ; 
Then after one long slope was 
mounted, saw. 



Bowl-shaped, thro' tops of many thou- 
sand pines 

A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink 

To westward — in the deeps whereof 
a mere. 

Round as the red eye of an Eagle- 
owl, 

Under the half-dead sunset glared ; 
and shouts 

Ascended, and there brake a serving- 
man 

Flying from out the black wood, and 
crying, 

" They have bound my lord to cast 
him in the mere." 

Then Gareth, " Bound am I to right 
the wrong'd. 

But straitlier bound am I to bide with 
thee." 

And when the damsel spake contemp- 
tuously, 

" Lead, and I follow," Gareth cried 
again, 

" Follow, I lead ! " so down among the 
pines 

He plunged ; and there, blackshadow'd 
nigh the mere. 

And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and 
reed, 

Saw six tall men haling a seventh 
along, 

A stone about his neck to drown him 
in it. 

Three with good blows he quieted, but 
three 

Fled thro' the pines; and Gareth loosed 
the stone 

From off his neck, then in the mere 
beside 

Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the 
mere. 

Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on 
free feet 

Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's 
friend. 

" Well that ye came, or else these 

caitiff rogues 
Had wreak'd themselves on me ; good 

cause is theirs 
To hate me, for my wont hath ever 

been 
To catch my thief, and then like ver- 
min here 
Drown him, and with a stone about 

his neck ; 
And under this wan water many of 

them 
Lie rotting, but at night let go the 

stone. 
And rise, and flickering in a grimly 

ligJit 
Dance on the mere. Good now, ye 

have saved a life 
Worth somewhat as the cleanser of 

this wood. 



196 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



And fain would I reward thee worship- 
fully. 
What guerdon will ye ? " 

Gareth sharply spake, 

"None! for the deed's sake have I 
done the deed, 

In uttermost obedience to the King. 

But wilt tliou yield this damsel har- 
borage ? " 
Whereat the Baron saying, " I well 
believe 

You be of Arthur's Table," a light 
laugh 

Broke from Lynette, " Ay, trulj' of a 
truth, 

And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen- 
knave ! — 

But deem not I accept thee aught the 
more. 

Scullion, for running sharply with tliy 
spit 

Down on a rout of craven foresters. 

A threslier with his flail had scatter'd 
them. 

Nay — for thou smellest of the kitchen 
still. 

But an this lord will yield us harbor- 
age. 

Well." 

So she spake. A league beyond 

the wood, 
All in a full-fair manor and a rich. 
His towers where that day a feast had 

been 
Held in high wall, and many a viand 

left. 
And many a costly cate, received the 

three. 
And there they placed a peacock in 

his pride 
Before the damsel, and the Baron 

set 
Gareth beside her, but at once she 

rose. 

"Meseems, that here is much dis- 
courtesy. 

Setting this knave. Lord Baron, at my 
side. 

Hear me — this morn I stood in 
Arthur's hall. 

And pray'd tiie lung would grant me 
Lancelot 

To fight the brotherhood of Day and 
Night — 

The last a monster unsubduable 

Of any save of him for whom I 
call'd — 

Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen- 
knave, 

'The quest is mine; thy kitchen- 
knave am I, 

And miglity thro' thy meats and 
drinks am L' 



Then Arthur all at once gone mad 

replies, 
' Go therefore,' and so gives the quest 

to liim — 
Him — here — a villain fitter to stick 

swine 
Than ride abroad redressing women's 

wrong. 
Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman." 

Then half-ashamed and part- 
amazed, the lord 

Now look'd at one and now at other, 
left 

The damsel by the peacock in his 
pride, 

And, seating Gareth at another board. 

Sat down beside him, ate and then 
began. 

" Friend, whether thou be kitchen- 
knave, or not. 

Or whether it be the maiden's fiuitasy. 

And whether she be mad, or else the 
King, 

Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, 

I ask not : but thou strikest a strong 
stroke. 

For strong thou art and goodly there- 
withal, 

And saver of my life ; and therefore 
now. 

For here be mighty men to joust with, 
weigh 

Whether thou wilt not with thy dam- 
sel back 

To crave again Sir Lancelot of the 
King. 

Thy pardon ; I but speak for thine 
avail, 

The saver of my life." 

And Gareth said, 
" Full pardon, but I follow up the 

quest. 
Despite of Day and Night and Death 

and Hell." 
So when, next morn, the lord whose 

life he saved 
Had, some brief space, convey'd them 

on their way 
And left tliem with God-speed, Sir 

Gareth spake, 
"Lead, and I follow." Haughtily she 

replied, 

" I fly no more : I allow thee for an 

hour. 
Lion and stoat have isled together, 

knave, 
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, 

methinks 
Some ruth is mine for thee.' Back 

wilt thou, fool ? 
For hard by here is one will overthrow 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



197 



And slay thee : then will I to court 
again, 

And shame the King for only yield- 
ing ine 

My champion from the ashes of his 
hearth." 

To whom bir Gareth answer'd cour- 
teously, 

" Say thou thy say, and I will do my 
deed. 

Allow me for mine hour, and thou 
wilt find 

My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay 

Among the ashes and wedded the 
King's son." 

Then te the shore of one of those 

long loops 
Wherethro' the serpent river coil'd, 

they came. 
Rough-thicketed were the banks and 

steep ; the stream 
Full, narrow ; this a bridge of single 

arc 
Took at a leap ; and on the furtlier 

side 
Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold 
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily 

in hue, 
Save that the dome was purple, and 

above, 
Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. 
And therebefore the lawless warrior 

paced 
Unarm'd, and calling, "Damsel, is 

this he, 
The champion thou hast brought from 

Arthur's hall ? 
For whom we let thee pass." " Nay, 

nay," she said, 
" Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter 

scorn 
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent 

thee here 
His kitchen-knave : and look thou to 

thyself : 
See that he fall not on thee suddenly. 
And slay thee unarm'd : he is not 

knight but knave." 

Then at his call, " daughters of 

the Dawn, 
And servants of the Morning-Star, 

approach, 
Arm me," from out the silken curtain- 
folds 
Bare-footed and bare-headed three 

fair girls 
In gilt and rosy raiment came : their 

feet 
In dewy grasses glisten'd ; and the 

hair 
All over glanced with dewdrop or with 

gem 
Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. 



These arm'd him in blue arms, and 

gave a shield 
Blue also, and thereon the morning 

star. 
And Gareth silent gazed upon the 

knight. 
Who stood a moment ere his horse 

was brought, 
Glorying ; and in the stream beneatli 

him, shone 
Immingled with Heaven's azure wav- 

eringly, 
The gav ijavilion and the naked 

feet. 
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the 

star. 

Then she that watch'd him, 

" Wherefore stare ye so ? 
Thou shakest in thy fear : there yet is 

time : 
Flee down the valley before he get to 

horse. 
Who will cry shame ? Thou art not 

knight but knave." 

Said Gareth, " Damsel, whether 
knave or knight. 

Far liefer had I fight a score of times 

Than hear thee so missay me and re- 
vile. 

Fair words were best for him who 
fights for thee ; 

But truly foul are better, for they 
send 

That strength of anger thro' mine 
arms, I know 

That I shall overthrow him." 

And he that bore 
The star, being mounted, cried from 

o'er the bridge, 
" A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn 

of me ! 
Such fight not I, but answer scorn 

with scorn. 
For this were shame to do him further 

wrong 
Than set him on his feet, and take his 

horse 
And arms, and so return him to the 

King. 
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, 

knave. 
Avoid : for it beseemeth not a knave 
To ride with such a lady." 

" Dog, thou liest. 
I spring from loftier lineage than 

thine own." 
He spake, and all at fiery speed the 

two 
Shock'd on the central bridge, and 

either spear 
Bent but not brake, and either knight 

at once. 



198 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Hurl'd as a stone from out of a cata- 
pult 
Beyond his horse's crupper and the 

bridge, 
Fell, as if dead ; but quickly rose and 

drew, 
And Garetli lash'd so fiercely with his 

brand 
He drave his enemy backward down 

the bridge, 
The damsel crying, " Well-stricken, 

kitchen-knave ! " 
Till Gareth's shield was cloven ; but 

one stroke 
Laid him that clove it grovelling on 

the ground. 

Then cried the fall'n, " Take not my 

life : I yield." 
And Gareth, " So this damsel ask it 

of me 
Good — I accord it easily as a grace." 
She reddening, " Insolent scullion : I 

of thee ? 
I bound to thee for any favor ask'd! " 
"Then shall he die." And Gareth 

there unlaced 
His helmet as to slay him, but she 

shriek'd, 
"Be not so hardy, scullion, as to 

slay 
One nobler than thyself." " Damsel, 

thy charge 
Is an abounding pleasure to me. 

Knight, 
Thy life is thine at her command. 

Arise 
And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, 

and say 
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. 

See thou crave 
His pardon for thy breaking of his 

laws. 
Myself, when I return, will plead for 

thee. 
Thy shield is mine — farewell ; and, 

damsel, thou, 
Lead, and I follow." 

And fast away she fled. 
Tlien when he came upon her, spake, 

" Methought, 
Knave, when I watch'd thee striking 

on the bridge 
The savor of thy kitchen came upon 

me 
A little f aintlier : but the wind hath 

changed : 
I scent it twenty-fold." And then she 

sang, 
"'0 morning star' (not that tall felon 

there 
Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness 
Or some device, hast foully over- 
thrown). 



'0 morning star that smilest in the 

blue, 
star, my morning dream hath 

proven true, 
Smile sweetly, thou ! my love hath 

smiled on me.' 

" But thou begone, take counsel, 

and away. 
For hard by here is one that guards a 

ford — 
The second brother in their fool's 

parable — 
Will pay thee all thy wages, and to 

boot. 
Care not for shame : thou art not 

knight but knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd, 

laughingly, 
"Parables? Hear a parable of the 

knave. 
When I was kitchen-knave among the 

rest 
Fierce was the hearth, and one of my 

co-mates 
Own'd a rougli dog, to whom he cast 

his coat, 
' Guard it,' and there was none to 

meddle with it. 
And such a coat art thou, and thee 

the King 
Gave me to guard, and such a dog 

am I, 
To vv-orry, and not to flee — an'd — 

knight or knave — 
The knave that doth thee service as 

full knight 
Is all as good, meseems, as any knight 
Toward thy sister's freeing." 

" Ay, Sir Knave ! 
Ay, knave, because tliou strikest as a 

knight. 
Being but knave, I hate thee all the 

more." 

"Fair damsel, you should worship 
me the more. 
That, being but knave, I throw thine 
enemies." 

" Ay, ay," she said, " but thou shalt 
meet thy match." 

So when they touch'd the second 
river-loop. 

Huge on a huge red horse, and all in 
mail 

Burnish'd to blinding, shone the Noon- 
day Sun 

Beyond a i-aging shallow. As if the 
flower, 

That blows a globe of after arrowlets, 

Ten thousand-fold had grown, flash'd 
the fierce shield. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



199 



All sun ; and Gareth's eyes had flying 

blots 
Before them when he turn'd from 

watching him. 
He from beyond the roaring shallow 

roar'd, 
" What doest thou, brother, in my 

marches here ? " 
And she athwart the shallow shrill'd 

again, 
" Here is a kitchen-knave from 

Arthur's hall 
Hath overthrown thy brother, and 

hath his arms." 
" Ugh ! " cried the Sun, and vizoring 

up a red 
And cipher face of roimded foolish- 
ness, 
Push'd horse across the foamings of 

the ford. 
Whom Gareth met midstream : no 

room was there 
For lance or tourney-skill : four 

strokes they struck 
With sword, and these were mighty; 

the new knight 
Had fear he might be shamed ; but as 

the Sun 
Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike 

the fifth. 
The hoof of his horse slipt in the 

stream, the stream 
Descended, and the Sun was wash'd 

away. 



Then Gareth laid his lance athwart 

the ford ; 
So drew him home ; but he that fought 

no more, 
As being all bone-batter'd on the rock. 
Yielded ; and Gareth sent him to the 

King. 
" Myself when I return will plead for 

thee." 
" Lead, and I follow." Quietly she 

led. 
" Hath not the good wind, damsel, 

changed again ? " 
" Nay, not a point : nor art thou victor 

liere. 
There lies a ridge of slate across the 

ford ; 
His horse thereon stumbled — ay, for 

I saw it. 



" ' Sun ' (not this strong fool 

whom thou. Sir Knave, 
Hast overthrown thro' mere unhappi- 

ness), 
' Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or 

pain, 
O moon, that layest all to sleep again, 
Shine sweetly: twice my love hath 

smiled on me.' 



" What knowest thou of lovesong 

or of love 1 
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly 

born. 
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, 

perchance, — 

" ' dewy flowers that open to the 

sun, 
dewy flowers that close when day is 

done. 
Blow sweeljy : twice my love hath 

smiled on me.' 

" What knowest thou of flowers, 
except, belike. 

To garnish meats with ? hath not our 
good King 

Who lent me thee, the flower of 
kitchendom, 

A foolish love for flowers 1 what stick 
ye round 

The pasty ? wherewithal deck the 
boar's head ? 

Flowers ? nay, the boar hath rose- 
maries and bay. 

" ' birds, that warble to the morn- 
ing sky, 
O birds tliat warble as the day goes 

by, 

Sing sweetly : twice my love hath 
smiled on me.' 

"What knowest thou of birds, lark, 

mavis, merle. 
Linnet ? what dream ye when they 

utter forth 
May-music growing with the growing 

light, 
Their sweet sun-worship ? these be for 

the snare 
(So runs thy fancy) these be for the 

spit. 
Larding and basting. See thou have 

not now 
Larded thy last, except thou turn and 

fly- 

There stands the third fool of their 
allegory." 

For there beyond a bridge of treble 

bow. 
All in a rose-red from the west, and 

all 
Naked it seem'd, and glowing in the 

broad 
Deep-dimpled current underneath, the 

knight, 
That named himself the Star of 

Evening, stood. 

And Gareth, " Wherefore waits the 
madman there 
Naked in ojien dayshine ? " " Nay," 
she cried. 



200 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



" Not naked, only Avrapt in harden'd 

skins 
That fit him like his own; and so ye 

cleave 
His armor off him, these will turn the 

blade." 

Then the third brother shouted o'er 

the bridge, 
" brother-star, why shine ye here so 

low? 
Thy ward is higher up : but have ye 

slain 
The damsel's champion 1 " and the 

damsel cried, 

" No star of thine, but shot from 

Arthur's heaven 
With all disaster unto thine and thee ! 
For both thy younger brethren have 

gone down 
Before this youth; and so wilt thou, 

Sir Star; 
Art thou not old ? " 

" Old, damsel, old and hard. 
Old, with the might and breath of 

twenty boys." 
Said Gareth, " Old, and over-bold in 

brag! 
But that same strength which threw 

the Morning Star 
Can throw the Evening." 

Then that other blew 
A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 
" Approach and arm me ! " With slow 

steps from out 
An old storm-beaten, russet, many- 

stain'd 
Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel 

came, 
And arm'd him in old arms, and 

brought a helm 
With but a drying evergreen for crest. 
And gave a shield whereon the Star of 

Even 
Half-tarnish'd and half-bright, his 

emblem, shone. 
But when it glitter'd o'er the saddle- 
bow. 
They madly hurl'd together on the 

bridge ; 
And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, 

drew. 
There met him drawn, and overthrew 

him again, 
But up like fire he started : and as 

oft 
As Gareth brought him grovelling on 

his knees. 
So many a time he vaulted up again ; 
Till Gareth panted hard, and his great 

heart, 
Foredooming all his trouble was in 

vain, 



Labor'd within him, for he seem'd as 

one 
That all in later, sadder age begins 
To war against ill uses of a life, 
But these from all his life arise, and 

cry, 
"Thou hast made us lords, and canst 

not put us down ! " 
He half despairs ; so Gareth seem'd to 

strike 
Vainly, the damsel clamoring all the 

while, 
" Well done, knave-knight, well 

sti-icken, good knight- 
knave — 
knave, as noble as any of all the 

knights — 
Shame me not, shame me not. I liave 

prophesied — 
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table 

E ound — 
His arms are old, he trusts the hard- 
en'd skin — 
Strike — strike — the wind will never 

change again." 
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier 

smote, 
And hew'd great pieces of his armor 

off him. 
But lash'd in vain against the harden'd 

skin. 
And could not wholly bring him 

under, more 
Than loud Southwesterns, rolling 

ridge on ridge. 
The buoy that rides at sea, and dips 

and springs 
For ever ; till at length Sir Gareth's 

brand 
Clash'd his, and brake it utterly to the 

hilt. 
" I have thee now ; " but forth that 

other sprang. 
And, all unknightlike, writhed his 

wiry arms 
Around him, till he felt, despite his 

mail, 
Strangled, but straining ev'n his utter- 
most 
Cast, and so hurl'd him headlong o'er 

the bridge 
Down to the river, sink or swim, and 

cried, 
" Lead, and I follow." 

But the damsel said, 
" I lead no longer ; ride thou at my 

side ; 
Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen- 
knaves. 

" • O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy 

plain, 
O rainbow with three colors after rain, 
Shine sweetly : thrice my love hath 

smiled on me.' 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



201 



" Sir, — and, good faith, I fain had 

added — Knight, 
But that I heard thee call thyself a 

knave, — 
Shamed am I that I so rebuked, 

reviled, 
Missaid thee ; noble I am ; and 

thought the King 
Scorn'd me and mine; and now thy 

pardon, friend. 
For thou hast ever answer'd cour- 
teously, 
And wholly bold thou art, and meek 

withal 
As any of Arthur's best, but, being 

knave, 
Hast mazed my wit : I marvel what 

thou art. 

" Damsel," he said, " you be not all 

to blame, 
Saving that you mistrusted our good 

King 
Would handle scorn, or yield you, 

asking, one 
Not fit to cope your quest. You said 

your say ; 
Mine answer was my deed. Good 

sooth ! I hold 
He scarce is knight, yea but half -man, 

nor meet 
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who 

lets 
His heart be stirr'd with any foolish 

heat 
At any gentle damsel's waywardness. 
Shamed ? care not ! thy foul sayings 

fought for me : 
And seeing now thy words are fair, 

methinks 
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, 

his great self. 
Hath force to quell me." 

Nigh upon that hour 

When the lone hern forgets his mel- 
ancholy, 

Lets down his other leg, and stretch- 
ing, dreams 

Of goodly supper in the distant pool. 

Then turn'd the noble damsel smiling 
at him, 

And told him of a cavern hard at 
hand. 

Where bread and baken meats and 
good red wine 

Of Southland, which the Lady Lyo- 
nors 

Had sent her coming champion, waited 
him. 

Anon they past a narrow comb 
wherein 
Were slabs of rock with figures, 
knights on horse 



Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-wan- 
ing hues. 

" Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once 
was here, 

Whose holy hand hath fashion'd on 
the rock 

The war of Time against the soul of 
man. 

And yon four fools have suck'd their 
allegory 

From these damp walls, and taken 
but the form. 

Know ye not these ? " and Gareth 
lookt and read — 

In letters like to those the vexillary 

Hath left crag-carven o'er the stream- 
ing Gelt — 

"Phosphorus," then "Meridies " — 
" Hesperus " — 

" Nox " — " Mors," beneath five fig- 
ures, armed men. 

Slab after slab, their faces forward 
all. 

And running down the Soul, a Sliape 
that fled 

With broken wings, torn raiment and 
loose hair, 

For help and shelter to the hermit's 
cave. 

"Follow the faces, and we find it. 
Look, 

Who comes behind ? " 

For one — delay'd at first 
Thro' helping back the dislocated Kay 
To Camelot, then by what thereafter 

chanced, 
The damsel's headlong error thro' the 

wood — 
Sir Lancelot, Ijaving swum the river- 
loops — 
His blue shield-lions cover'd — softly 

drew 
Behind the twain, and when he savr 

the star 
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to 

him, cried, 
" Stay, felon-knight, I avenge me for 

my friend." 
And Gareth crying prick'd against the 

cry; 
But when they closed — in a moment 

— at one touch 
Of that skill'd spear, the wonder of 

the world — 
Went sliding down so easily, and fell. 
That when he found the grass within 

his hands 
He laugh'd ; the laughter jarr'd upon 

Lynette : 
Harshly she ask'd him, " Shamed and 

overthrown. 
And tumbled back into the kitchen- 
knave. 
Why laugh ye ? that ye blew your 

boast in vain ? " 



202 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



"Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the 

son 
Of old King Lot and good Queen Bel- 

licent, 
And victor of the bridges and the ford, 
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown 

by whom 
I know not, all thro' mere unhappi- 

ness — 
Device and sorcery and unhappi- 

ness — 
Out, sword ; we are thrown ! " And 

Lancelot answer'd, " Prince, 

Gareth — thro' the mere unhappi- 

ness 
Of one who came to help thee, not to 

harm, 
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee 

whole. 
As on the day when Arthur knighted 

him." 

Then Gareth, " Thou— Lancelot ! 

— thine the hand 
That threw me 1 An some chance to 

mar the boast 
Thy brethren of thee make — which 

could not chance — 
Had sent thee down before a lesser 

spear. 
Shamed had I been, and sad — O 

Lancelot — thou ! " 

Whereat the maiden, petulant, 

" Lancelot, 
Why came ye not, when call'd ? and 

wherefore now 
Come ye, not call'd 1 I gloried in my 

knave, 
Who being still rebuked, would answer 

still 
Courteous as any knight — but now, 

if knight. 
The marvel dies, and leaves me fool'd 

and trick'd. 
And only wondering wherefore play'd 

ujion : 
And doubtful whether I and mine be 

scorn'd. 
Wher^ should be truth if not in 

Arthur's hall. 
In Arthur's presence '{ Knight, 

knave, prince and fool, 

1 hate thee and for ever." 

And Lancelot said, 

" Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth ! knight 
art thou 

To the King's best wish. O damsel, 
be you wise 

To call him shamed, who is but over- 
thrown ? 

Thrown have I been, nor once, but 
many a time. 

Victor from vanquish'd issues at the 
last, 



And overthrower from being over- 
thrown. 
With sword we have not striven ; and 

thy good horse 
And thou are weary ; yet not less I 

felt 
Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance 

of thine. 
Well hast thou done ; for all the 

stream is freed. 
And thou hast wreak'd his justice on 

ills foes. 
And when reviled, hast answer'd 

graciously, 
And makest merry when overthrown. 

Prince, Knight, 
Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our 

Table Eound ! " 

And then when turning to Lynette 

he told 
The tale of Gareth, petulantly she 

said, 
" Ay well — ay well — for worse than 

being fool'd 
Of others, is to fool one's self. A 

cave, 
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats 

and drinks 
And forage for the horse, and flint for 

fire. 
But all about it flies a honeysuckle. 
Seek, till Ave find." And when they 

sought and found. 
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his 

life 
Past into sleep ; on whom the maiden 

gazed. 
" Sound sleep be thine ! sound cause 

to sleep hast thou. 
Wake lusty! seem I not as tender to 

him 
As any mother 1 Ay, but such a 

one 
As all day long hath rated at her 

child, 
And vext liis day, but blesses him 

asleep — 
Good lord, how sweetly smells the 

honeysuckle 
In the hush'd night, as if the world 

were one 
Of utter peace, and love, and gentle- 
ness ! 
Lancelot, Lancelot " — and she 

clapt her hands — 
" Full merry am I to find my goodly 

knave 
Is knight and noble. See now, sworn 

have I, 
Else yon black felon had not let me 

pass, 
To bring thee back to do the battle 

with him. 
Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee 

first; 



GARETH AND J.YNETTE. 



203 



Who doubts thee victor ? so will my 
knight-knave 

Miss the full flower of this accom- 
plishment." 



Said Lancelot, " Peradventure he, 
you name, 
May know my shield. Let Gareth, 
an he will, 




"Sound sleep he thine', sound cause to sleep hast thou.'' 



Change his for mine, and take my 

charger, fresh. 
Not to be spurr'd, loving the battle as 

well • 
As he that rides him." " Lancelot- 
like," she said, 
" Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as 

in all." 
And Gareth, wakening, fiercely 

clutch'd the shield ; 
" Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on 

whom all spears 
Are rotten sticks ! ye seem agape to 

roar ! 



Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your 

lord ! — 
Care not, good beasts, so well I care 

for you. 
O noble Lancelot, from my hold on 

these 
Streams virtue — fire — thro' one that 

will not shame 
Even the shadow of Lancelot under 

shield. 
Hence : let us go." 

Silent the silent field 
They traversed. Arthur's harp tho' 

summer-wan, 



204 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



In counter motion to the clouds, 
allured 

The glance of Gareth dreaming on 
Ills liege. 

A star shot : " Lo," said Gareth,' " the 
foe falls ! " 

An owl whoopt : " Hark the victor 
pealing there ! " 

Suddenly she that rode upon his left 

Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent 
him, crying, 

" Yield, 3'ield him this again : 'tis he 
must fight : 

I curse the tongue that all thro' yes- 
terday 

Reviled thee, and hath wrought on 
Lancelot now 

To lend thee horse and shield : won- 
ders ye have done ; 

Miracles ye cannot : here is glory enow 

In having flung the three : I see thee 
maim'd, 

Mangled : I swear thou canst not fling 
the fourth." 

" And wherefore, damsel ? tell me 

all ye know. 
You cannot scare me ; nor rough face, 

or voice, 
Brute bulk of limb, or boundless 

savagery 
Appal me from the quest." 

"Nay, Prince," she cried, 

"God wot, I never look'd upon the 
face, 

Seeing he never rides abroad by 
day ; 

But watch'd him have I like a phan- 
tom pass 

Chilling the night : nor have I heard 
the voice. 

Always he made his mouthpiece of a 
page 

Who came and went, and still re- 
ported him 

As closing in himself the strength of 
ten, 

And when his anger tare him, mas- 
sacring 

Man, woman, lad and girl — yea, tlie 
soft babe ! 

Some hold that he hath swallow'd 
infant flesh. 

Monster ! O Prince, I went for Lance- 
lot first. 

The quest is Lancelot's : give him 
back the shield." 

Said Gareth laughing, " An he figlit 
for this. 
Before he wins it as the better man : 
Thus — and not else ! " 

But Lancelot on him urged 
All the devisings of their chivalry 



^yllen one might meet a mightier than 

Jiiniself ; 
How best to manage horse, lance, 

sword and shield, 
And so fill up the gap where force 

might fail 
With skill and fineness. Instant were 

his words. 

Then Gareth, "Here be rules. I 

know but one — 
To dash against mine enemy and to 

win. 
Yet have I watch'd thee victor in the 

joust. 
And seen thy wa3^" " Heaven help 

tliee," sigh'd Lynette. 

Tlien for a space, and under cloud 

that grew 
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, 

they rode 
In converse till she made her palfrey 

halt. 
Lifted an arm, and softly whisjier'd, 

"There." 
And all the three were silent seeing, 

pitch'd 
Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, 
A huge pavilion like a mountain peak 
Sunder the glooming crimson on the 

marge, 
Black, with black banner, and a long 

black horn 
Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth 

graspt. 
And so, before the two could hinder 

Iiim, 
Sent all his heart and breath thro' all 

the horn. 
Echo'd the walls ; a light twinkled ; 

anon 
Came lights and lights, and once again 

he blew ; 
Whereon were hollow tramplings up 

and down 
And muflled voices heard, and shadows 

past ; 
Till high above him, circled with her 

maids. 
The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, 
Beautiful among lights, and waving to 

him 
White hands, and courtesy ; but when 

the Prince 
Three times had blown — ■' after long 

hush — at last — 
The huge pavilion slowly j'ielded up, 
Thro' those black foldings, that which 

housed tlierein. 
High on a nightblack horse, in night- 
black arms, 
AVith white breast-bone, and barren 

ribs of Death, 
And crown'd withfleshless laughter — 

some ten steps — 



GERAJNT AND ENID. 



205 



In the half-liglit — thro' the dim dawn 

— advanced 
The monster, and tlien paused, and 

spake no word. 

But Gareth spake and all indig- 
nantly, 
"Fool, for thou hast, men say, the 

strength of ten, 
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy 

God hath given, 
But must, to make the terror of thee 

more. 
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries 
Of that which Life hath done with, 

and tlie clod. 
Less dull than thou, will hide with 

mantling flowers 
As if for pity ? " But he sjiake no 

word ; 
Which set the horror higher : a maiden 

swoon'd ; 
The Lady Lyonors wrung her liands 

and wei)t, 
As doom'd to be the bride of Night 

and Death ; 
Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his 

helm ; 
And ev'n Sir Lancelot thro' his warm 

blood felt 
Ice strike, and all that mark'd him 

were aghast. 

At once Sir Lancelot's charger 

fiercely neigh'd, 
And Death's dark war-horse bounded 

forward with him. 
Then those that did not blink the 

terror, saw- 
That Death was cast to ground, and 

slowly rose. 
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split 

the skull. 
Half fell to right and half to left and 

lay. 
Then with a stronger buffet he clove 

tiie helm 
As throughly as the skull ; and out 

from this 
Issued the bright face of a blooming 

boy 
Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 

" Knight, 
Slay me not : my three brethren bade 

me do it, 
To make a horror all about the 

house. 
And stay tlie world from Lady Lyon- 
ors. 
They never dream 'd the passes would 

be past." 
Answer'd Sir Gareth graciously to one 
Not many a moon his younger, " I\Iy 

fair child. 
What madness made thee challenge 

the chief knight 



Of Arthur's hall?" '-Fair Sir, they 

bade me do it. 
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the 

King's friend, 
They hoped to slay him 'somewhere 

on the stream, 
They never dream'd the jiasses could 

be past." 

Then sprang the happier day from 

underground; 
And Lady Lyonors and her house, 

with dance 
And revel and song, made merry over 

Death, 
As being after all their foolish fears 
And horrors only proven a blooming 

boy. 
So large mirth lived and Gareth won 

the quest. 

And he that told the tale in older 
times 
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, 
But he, that told it later, says Lynette. 



GERAINT AND ENID. 

I. 

The brave Geraint, a knight of 

Arthur's court, 
A tributarv prince of Devon, one 
Of that great Order of the Table 

Eound, 
Had married Enid, Yniol's only child. 
And loved her, as he loved the light 

of Heaven. 
And as the light of Heaven varies, now 
At sunrise, now at sunset, now by 

night 
AVith moon and trembling stars, so 

loved Geraint 
To make her beauty vary day by daj% 
In crimsons and in purples and in 

gems. 
And Enid, but to please her husband's 

eye, 
Who first had found and loved her in 

a state 
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted 

him 
In some fresh splendor; and the Queen 

herself. 
Grateful to Prince Geraint f cr service 

done. 
Loved her, and often with her own 

white hands 
Arraj''d and deck'd her, as the love- 
liest, 
Next after her own self, in all the 

court. 
And Enid loved the Queen, and with 

true heart 
Adored her, as the stateliest and the 

best 



206 



GERAIXr AND ENID. 



And loveliest of all women xipon earth. 
And seeing them so tender and so 

close, 
Long in their common love rejoiced 

Geraint. 
But when a rumor rose about the 

Queen, 
Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 
Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet 

was heard 
The world's loud whisper breaking 

into storm, 
Not less Geraint believed it ; and there 

fell 
A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, 
Thro' that great tenderness for Guin- 
evere, 
Had suffer'd, or should suffer any 

taint 
In nature : wherefore going to tlie 

King, 
He made this pretext, that his prince- 
dom lay 
Close on the borders of a territory. 
Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff 

knights, 
Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 
Of Justice, and whatever loathes a 

law : 
And therefore, till the King himself 

should please 
To cleanse this common sewer of all 

his realm, 
He craved a fair permission to depart, 
And there defend his marches; and 

the King 
Mused for a little on his plea, but, last. 
Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, 
And fifty kniglits rode witli them, to 

the shores 
Of Severn, and tliey past to their own 

land ; 
Where, thinking, that if ever yet was 

wife 
True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, 
He compass'd her with sweet observ- 
ances 
And worship, never leaving her, and 

grew 
Forgetful of his promise to the 

King, 
Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt. 
Forgetful of the tilt and tournament. 
Forgetful of his glory and his name. 
Forgetful of his princedom and its 

cares. 
And this forgetfulness was hateful to 

her. 
And by and by the people, when they 

met 
In twos and threes, or fuller com- 
panies, 
Began to scoff and jeer and babble of 

him 
As of a prince whose manhood was all 

gone. 



And molten down in mere uxorious- 

ness. 
And this she gather'd from the jieo- 

ple's eyes : 
This too the women who attired her 

head, 
To please her, dwelling on his bound- 
less love, 
Told Enid, and they sadden'd her tlie 

more : 
And day by day she thought to tell 

Geraint, 
But could not out of bashful delicacy ; 
Wlule lie that watch'd her sadden, was 

the more 
Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 

At last, it chanced that on a summer 

morn 
(They sleeping each by cither) the 

new sun 
Beat thro' the blindless casement of 

the room. 
And heated the strong warrior in his 

dreams ; 
Who, moving, cast the coverlet 

aside. 
And bared the knotted column of his 

throat. 
The massive square of his heroic 

breast. 
And arms on which the standing 

muscle sloped. 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little 

stone, 
Running too vehemently to break 

upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the 

couch. 
Admiring him, and thought within 

herself, 
Was ever man so grandly made as 

he? 
Then, like a shadow, past the people's 

talk 
And accusation of uxoriousness 
Across her mind, and bowing over 

him. 
Low to her own heart piteously she 

said : 

" noble breast and all-puissant 

arms. 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that 

men 
Reproach you, saying all your force 

is gone? 
I am the cause, because I dare not 

speak 
And tell him what I think and what 

they say. 
And yet I hate that he should linger 

here ; 
I cannot love my lord and not his 

name. 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



2Q1 



Far liefer had I gird his harness on 

him, 
And ride with him to battle and stand 

by, 

And watch his mightful hand striking 

great blows 
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the 

world. 
Far better were I laid in the dark 

earth. 
Not hearing any more his noble voice, 
Not to be folded more in these dear 

arms. 
And darken'd from the high light in 

his eyes, 
Than that my lord thro' me should 

suffer shame. 
Am I so bold, and could I so stand 

And see my dear lord wounded in the 

strife, 
Or maybe pierced to death before 

mine eyes, 
And 3'et not dare to tell him what I 

think. 
And how men slur him, saying all his 

force 
Is melted into mere effeminacy 1 
rae, I fear that I am no true wife." 



Half inwardly, half audibly she 

spoke. 
And the strong passion in her made 

her weep 
True tears upon his broad and naked 

breast. 
And these awoke him, and by great 

mischance 
He heard but fragments of her later 

words, 
And that she f ear'd she was not a true 

wife. 
And then he thought, " In spite of all 

my care. 
For all my pains, poor man, for all 

my pains. 
She is not faithful to me, and I see her 
Weeping for some gay knight in 

Arthur's hall." 
Then tho' he loved and reverenced 

her too much 
To dream she could be guilty of foul 

act. 
Right thro' his manful breast darted 

the pang 
That makes a man, in the sweet face 

of her 
Whom he loves most, lonely and mis- 
erable. 
At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out 

of bed, 
And shook his drowsy squire awake 

and cried, 
" My charger and her palfrey ; " then 

to her, 



" I will ride forth into the wilderness ; 
For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to 

win, 
I have not fall'n so low as some would 

wish. 
And thou, put on thy worst and mean- 
est dress 
And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, 

amazed, ^ 

"If Enid errs, let Enid learn her 

fault." 
But he, " I charge thee, ask not, but 

obey." 
Then she bethought her of a faded 

silk, . 
A faded mantle and a faded veil. 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet. 
Wherein she kept them folded rever- 
ently 
With sprigs of summer laid between 

the folds, 
She took them, and array'd herself 

therein. 
Remembering when first he came on 

her 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved 

her in it. 
And all her foolish fears about the 

dress, 
And all his journey to her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 

coiirt. 

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide 

before 
Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. 
There on a day, he sitting high in 

hall. 
Before him came a forester of Dean, 
Wet from the woods, with notice of a 

hart 
Taller than all his fellows, milky- 
white, 
First seen that day : these things he 

told the King. 
Then the good King gave order to let 

blow 
His horns for hunting on the morrow 

morn. 
And when the Queen petition'd for his 

leave 
To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. 
So with the morning all the court were 

gone. 
But Guinevere lay late into the 

morn. 
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming 

of her love 
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the 

hunt ; 
But rose at last, a single maiden with 

her. 
Took horse, and forded Usk, and 

gain'd the wood ; 
There, on a little knoll beside it, 

stay'd 



208 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Waiting to liear the hounds; but 
lieard instead 

A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince 
Geraint, 

Late also, wearing neither hunting- 
dress 

Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted 
brand, 

Came qmckly flashing thro' the shal- 
low ford 

Behind them, and so gallop'd up the 
knoll. 

A purple scarf, at either end whereof 

There swung an apple of the purest 
gold, 

SvTay'd round about him, as he gal- 
lop'd ;ip 

To join them, glancing like a dragon- 

fly 

In summer suit and silks of holiday. 
Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and 

she. 
Sweetly and statelily, and with all 

grace 
Of womanhood and queenhood, 

answer'd him : 
" Late, late. Sir Prince," she said, 

" later tlian we ! " 
"Yea, noble Queen," he answer'd, 

" and so late 
That I but come like you to see the 

hunt, 
Not join it." " Therefore wait with 

me," she said ; 
" For on this little knoll, if anywhere, 
There is good chance that we shall 

hear the hounds : 
Here often they break covert at our 

feet." 

And while they listen'd for the dis- 
tant liunt. 

And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 

King Arthur's hound of deepest 
mouth, there rode 

Full slowly by a kniglit, lady, and 
dwarf ; 

Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and 
the knight 

Had vizor up, and show'd a youthful 
face. 

Imperious, and of haughtiest linea- 
ments. 

And Guinevere, not mindful of his 
face 

In the King's hall, desired his name, 
and sent 

Her maiden to demand it of the 
dwarf ; 

AYho being vicious, old and irritable, 

And doubling all his master's vice of 
pride. 

Made answer sharply that she should 
not know. 

" Then will I ask it of himself," she 
said. 



" Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," 

cried the dwarf ; 
" Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak 

of him ; " 
And when she put her horse toward 

the knight. 
Struck at her with liis whip, and she 

return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; whereat 

Geraint 
Exclaiming, "Surely I will learn the 

name," 
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd 

it of him, 
Who answer'd as before; and when 

the Prince 
Had put his horse in motion toward 

the kniglit. 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut 

his cheek. 
The Prince's blood spirted upon the 

scarf. 
Dyeing it ; and his quick, instinctive 

hand 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : 
But he, from his exceeding manful- 

ness 
And pure nobility of temperament. 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, 

refrain'd 
From ev'n a word, and so returning 

said : 

" I will avenge this insult, noble 
Queen, 

Done in vour maiden's person to your- 
self : 

And I will track this vermin to their 
earths : 

For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt 

To find, at some place I shall come at, 
arms 

On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being 
found, 

Then Mill I fight him, and will break 
his ijride. 

And on the third day will again be 
here, 

So that I be not fall'n in fight. Fare- 
well." 

" Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd 

tlie stately Queen. 
" Be prosperous in this journev, as in 

all; 
And may you light on all things that 

you love. 
And live to wed witla her whom first 

3'ou loA'e : 
But ere you wed with any, bring j'our 

bride, 
And I, were she the daughter of a 

king. 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the 

hedge. 
Will clothe her for her bridals like 

the sun." 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



209 



And Prince Geraint, now thinking 

that he heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far 

horn, 
A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode. 
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy 

glade 



And valley, with fixt eye following 

the three. 
At last they issued from the world of 

wood. 
And climb'd upon a fair and even 

ridge, 
And show'd themselves against the 

sky, and sank. 




" Beheld the long street of a little town 
In a long vallei/, on one side whereof, 
White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose" 



And thither came Geraint, and under- 
neath 

Beheld the long street of a little town 

In a long valley, on one side 
whereof. 

White from the mason's hand, a for- 
tress rose ; 

And on one side a castle in decay. 

Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry 
ravine : 

And out of town and valley came a 
noise 

As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 



Brawling, or like a clamor of the 

rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for the 

night. 

And onward to the fortress rode the 

three. 
And enter'd, and were lost behind the 

walls. 
" So," tliought Geraint, " I have 

track'd him to his earth." 
And down the long street riding 

wearily. 



210 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Pound every hostel full, ami every- 
where 
Was hammer laid to lioof, and the 

hot hiss 
And bustling whistle of tlie yoiitli 

vho scour'd 
His master's armor; and of such a 

one 
He ask'd, "What means the tumult 

in the town ? " 
Wlio told him, scourinj,^ still, " The 

sparrow-hawk ! " 
Tlien riding close behind an ancient 

churl, 
Who, smitten by the dusty slojjing 

beam. 
Went sweating underneath a sack of 

corn, 
Ask'd yet once more what meant the 

hubbub here ' 
Who answer'd gruffly, " Ugh ! the 

sparrow-hawk." 
Then riding further past an armorer's. 
Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd 

above his work, 
Sat riveting a helmet on his knee. 
He put the self-same query, but the 

man 
Not turning round, nor looking at 

him, said : 
" Friend, he that labors for the spar- 
row-hawk 
Has little time for idle questioners." 
Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden 

spleen : 
" A thousand pips eat up your spar- 
row-hawk ! 
Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings 

peck him dead ! 
Ye think the rustic cackle of your 

bourg 
The murmur of the world ! What is 

it to me ? 
wretched set of sparrows, one and 

all, 
Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow- 
hawks ! 
Speak, if ye be not like the rest, 

hawk-mad, 
Where can I get me harborage for 

the night ? 
And arms, arms, arms to fight my 

enemy ? Speak ! " 
Whereat the armorer turning all 

amazed 
And seeing one so gay in purple silks, 
Came forward with the helmet yet in 

hand 
And answer'd, " Pardon me, stran- 
ger knight ; 
We hold a tourney here to-morrow 

morn, 
And there is scantly time for half the 

work. 
Arms ? truth ! I know not : all are 

wanted here. 



Harborage ? truth, good truth, I know 

not, save, 
It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the 

bridge 
Yonder." He spoke and fell to work 

again. 

Then rode Geraint, a little Spleen- 
ful yet, 

Across the bi"idge that spann'd the 
dry ravine. 

There musing sat the hoarv-headed 
Earl, 

(His dress a suit of fray'd magnifi- 
cence. 

Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and 
said : 

" Whither, fair son ? " to whom Ger- 
aint replied, 

" friend, I seek a harborage for the 
night." 

Then Yniol, " Enter therefore and 
partake 

The slender entertainment of a house 

Once rich, now poor, but ever open- 
door'd." 

" Thanks, venerable friend," replied 
Geraint ; 

" So that you do not serve me spar- 
row-hawks 

For supper, I will enter, I will eat 

With all the passion of a twelve 
hours' fast." 

Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary- 
headed Earl, 

And answer'd, " Graver cause than 
yours is mine 

To curse this hedgerow thief, the 
sparrow-hawk : 

But in, go in ; for save yourself de- 
sire it. 

We will not touch upon him ev'n in 
jest." 

Then rode Geraint into the castle 

court. 
His charger trampling many a prickly 

star 
Of sprouted thistle on the broken 

stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was 

ruinous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway 

plumed with fern; 
And here had fall'n a great part of 

a tower, 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from 

the cliff. 
And like a crag was gay with wilding 

flowers : 
And high above a piece of turret stair. 
Worn by the feet that now were 

silent, wound 
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy- 
stems 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



211 



C'laspt the gray wails witli hairy- 
fibred arms. 

And suclt'd tlie joining of tlie stones, 
and look'd 

A knot, beneatli, of snakes, aloft, a 
grove. 

And while he waited in the castle 

court. 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, 

rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of tlio 

hall, 
Singing ; and as tlie sweet voice of a 

bird, 
Heard by tlie lander in a lonely isle, 
Moves him to think what kind of bird 

it is 
That sings so delicately clear, and 

make 
Conjecture of the plumage and the 

form ; 
So the sweet voice of Enid moved 

Geraint ; 
And made him like a man abroad at 

morn 
When first the liquid note beloved of 

men 
Comes flying over many a windy wave 
To Britain, and in April suddenly 
Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with 

green and red. 
And he suspends his converse with a 

friend. 
Or it may be the labor of his hands. 
To think or say, " There is the night- 
ingale " ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who thought 

and said, 
" Here, by God's grace, is the one 

voice for me." 

It chanced the song that Enid sang 
was one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid 
sang : 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel 

and lower the proud ; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, 

storm, and cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love 

nor hate. 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel 

with smile or frown ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or 

down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 

great. 

" Smile and we smile, the lords of 

many lands ; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our 

own hands ; 
For man is man and master of his 

fate. 



" Turn, turn thy wheel above the 

staring crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in 

the cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love 

nor hate." 

" Hark, by the bird's song ye may 
learn the nest," 

Said Yniol ; " enter quickly." Enter- 
ing then. 

Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen 
stones, 

The dusky-rafter'd many-cobweb'd 
hall. 

He found an ancient dame in dim 
brocade ; 

And near her, like a blossom vermeil- 
white. 

That lightly breaks a faded flower- 
sheath, 

Moved the fair Enid, all in faded 
silk. 

Her daughter. In a moment thought 
Geraint, 

"Here by God's rood is the one maid 
for me." 

But none spake word except the hoary 
Earl : 

" Enid, the good knight's horse stands 
in the court ; 

Take him to stall, and give him corn, 
and then 

Go to the town and buy us flesh and 
wine ; 

And we will make us merry as we 
may. 

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 
great." 

He spake : the Prince, as Enid past 

him, fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol 

caught 
His purple scarf, and held, and said, 

" Forbear ! 
Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O 

my son. 
Endures not that her guest should 

serve himself." 
And reverencing the custom of the 

house 
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. 

So Enid took his charger to the 

stall ; 
And after went her way across the 

bridge, 
And reach'd the town, and while the 

Prince and Earl 
Yet spoke together, came again with 

one, 
A youth, that following with a costrel 

bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh 

and wine. 



212 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



And Enid brought sweet cakes to 

make them cheer, 
And ill her veil unfolded, manchet 

bread. 
And then, because their hall must also 

serve 
For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and 

spread the board, 
And stood behind, and waited on the 

three. 
And seeing her so sweet and service- 
able, 
Geraint had longing in him evermore 
To stoop and kiss the tender little 

thumb. 
That crost the trencher as she laid it 

down : 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
For now the wine made summer in his 

veins, 
Let his eye rove in following, or 

rest 
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work. 
Now here, now there, about the dusky 

hall ; 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary 

Earl: 

" Fair Host and Earl, I pray your 

courtesy ; 
This sparrow-hawk, what is he "? tell 

me of him. 
His name ? but no, good faith, I Avill 

not have it : 
For if he be the knight whom late I 

saw 
Ride into that new fortress by your 

town. 
White from the mason's hand, then 

have I sworn 
From his own lips to have it — I am 

Geraint 
Of Devon — for this morning when the 

Queen 
Sent her own maiden to demand the 

name, 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen 

thing, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she 

return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then I 

swore 
That I would track this caitiff to his 

hold. 
And fight and break his pride, and 

have it of him. 
And all unarm'd I rode, and thought 

to find 
Arms in your town, where all the men 

are mad ; 
They take the rustic murmur of their 

bourg 
For the great wave that echoes round 

the world ; 
They would not hear me speak : but 

if ve know 



Where I can light on arms, or if vour- 

self 
Should have them, tell me, seeing I 

have sworn 
That I will break his pride and learn 

his name. 
Avenging this great insult done the 

Queen." 

Then cried Earl Yniol, "Art thou 

he indeed, 
Geraint, a name far-sounded among 

men 
For noble deeds ? and truly I, when 

first 
I saw you moving by me on the 

bridge. 
Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by 

your state 
And presence might have guess'd you 

one of those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 
Nor speak I now from foolish flat- 
tery; 
For this dear child hath often heard 

me praise 
Your feats of arms, and often when I 

paused 
Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to 

hear ; 
So grateful is the noise of noble deeds " 
To noble hearts who see but acts of 

wrong : 

never j^et had woman such a 

pair 
Of suitors as this maiden ; first Lim- 

ours, 
A creature wholly given to brawls and 

wine, 
Drunk even when he woo'd; and be 

he dead 

1 know not, but he passed to the wild 

land. 

The second was your foe, the sparrow- 
hawk. 

My curse, my nephew — I will not let 
his name 

Slip from my lips if I can help it — 
he. 

When I that knew him fierce and tur- 
bulent 

Refused her to him, then his pride 
awoke ; 

And since the proud man often is the 
mean, 

He sow'd a slander in the common ear. 

Affirming that his father left him 
gold. 

And in my charge, which was not ren- 
der'd to him ; 

Bribed with large promises the men 
who served 

About ray person, the more easily 

Because 1113- means were somewhat 
broken into 

Thro' open doors and hosiiitality ; 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



21: 



Raised my own town against me in 

the nigjit 
Before my Enid's birtliday, sack'd my 

house ; 
From mine own earldom foully ousted 

nie ; 
Built that new fort to overawe my 

friends, 
For truly there are those who love me 

yet; 
And keeps me in this ruinous castle 

here, 
Where doubtless he would put me 

soon to death. 
But that his pride too much despises 

me : 
And I myself sometimes despise my- 
self ; 
For I have let men he, and have their 

way ; 
Am much too gentle, have not used 

my power : 
Nor know I whether I be very base 
Or very manful, whether very wise 
Or very foolish ; only this I know. 
That whatsoever evil happen to me, 
I seem to suffer nothing heart or 

limb, 
But can endure it all most patiently." 

" Well said, true heart," replied 

Geraint, " but arms. 
That if the sparrow-hawk, this 

nephew, fight 
In next day's tourney I may break 

his pride." 

And Yniol answer'd, " Arms, indeed, 
but old 

And rusty, old and rusty, Prince 
Geraint, 

Are mine, and therefore at thine ask- 
ing, thine. 

But in this tournament can no man 
tilt, 

Except the lady he loves best be 
there. 

Two forks are fixt into the meadow 
ground, 

And over these is placed a silver 
wand. 

And over that a golden sparrow-hawk. 

The prize of beauty for the fairest 
there. 

And this, what knight soever be in 

field 
. Lays claim to for the lady at his side, 

And tilts with my good nephew there- 
upon, 

Who being apt at arms and big of 
bone 

Has ever won it for the lady with 
him. 

And toppling over all antagonism 

Has earn'd himself the name of spar- 
row-hawk. 



But thou, that hast no lady, canst not 
fight." 

To whom Geraint with eyes all 

bright replied, 
Leaning a little toward him, " Thy 

leave ! 
Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host. 
For this dear child, because I never 

saw, 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our 

time, 
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so 

fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet remain 
Untarnish'd as before ; but if I live. 
So aid me Heaven when at mine ut- 
termost. 
As I will make her truly my true 

wife." 

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's 
heart 

Danced in his bosom, seeing better 
days. 

And looking round he saw not Enid 
there, 

(Who hearing her own name had 
stol'n away) 

But that old dame, to whom full ten- 
derly 

And fondling all her hand in his he 
said, 

" Mother, a maiden is a tender thing. 

And best by her that bore her under- 
stood. 

Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to 
rest 

Tell her, and prove her heart toward 
the Prince." 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, 

and she 
With frequent smile and nod depart- 
ing found, 
Half disarray 'd as to her rest, the girl ; 
Whom first slie kiss'd on either cheek, 

and then 
On either shining shoulder laid a hand, 
And kept her off and gazed upon her 

face. 
And told her all their converse in the 

hall. 
Proving her heart : but never light and 

shade 
Coursed one another more on open 

ground 
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red 

and pale 
Across the face of Enid hearing her ; 
While slowly falling as a scale that 

falls. 
When weight is added only grain by 

grain. 
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle 

breast ; 



214 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a 

word, 
Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of 

it; 
So moving without answer to her rest 
She found no rest, and ever fail'd to 

draw 
The quiet night into her blood, but 

lay 
Contemplating her own unworthiness ; 
And when the pale and bloodless east 

began 
To quicken to the sun, arose, and 

raised 
Her mother too, and hand in hand 

tliey moved 
Down to the meadow where the jousts 

were held. 
And waited there for Yniol and 

Geraint. 

And thither came the twain, and 

when Geraint 
Beheld her first in field, awaiting him. 
He felt, were she the prize of bodily 

force. 
Himself beyond the rest pushing could 

move 
The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted 

arms 
Were on his princely person, but thro' 

these 
Princelike his bearing shone ; and 

errant knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the 

town 
Flow'd in, and settling circled all the 

lists. 
And there they fixt the forks into the 

ground, 
And over these they placed the silver 

wand. 
And over that the golden sparrow- 
hawk. 
Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet 

blown. 
Spake to the lady with him and pro- 

claim'd, 
" Advance and take as fairest of the 

fair. 
For I these two years past have won 

it for tliee. 
The prize of beauty." Loudly spake 

tlie Prince, 
" Forbear : there is a worthier," and 

the knight 
With some surprise and thrice as mucli 

disdain 
Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all 

his face 
Glow'd like the heart of a great fire 

at Yule, 
So burnt he was with passion, crying 

out, 
" Do battle for it then," no more ; and 

thrice 



They clash'd together, and thrice they 

brake their spears. 
Then each, dishorsed and drawing, 

lash'd at each 
So often and with such blows, that all 

the crowd 
Wonder'd, and now and then from 

distant walls 
There came a clapping as of phantom 

hands. 
So twice they fought, and twice they 

breathed, and still 
The dew of their great labor, and the 

blood 
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd 

tlieir force. 
But cither's force was match'd till 

Yniol's cry, 
" Remember that great insult done the 

Queen," 
Increased Geraint's, who heaved his 

blade aloft, 
And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit 

the bone, 
And fell'd him, and set foot upon his 

breast, 
And said, "Thy name? " To whom 

the fallen man 
Made answer, groaning, " Edyrn, son 

of Nuddl 
Ashamed am I that I should tell it 

thee. 
My pride is broken : men have seen 

my fall." 
" Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd," replied 

Geraint, 
" These two things shalt thou do, or 

else thou diest. 
First, thou thyself, with damsel and 

with dwarf, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and com- 
ing there. 
Crave pardon for that insult done the 

Queen, 
And shalt abide her judgment on it; 

next. 
Thou shalt give back their earldom to 

thy kin. 
These two things shalt thou do, or 

thou shalt die." 
And Edyrn answer'd, " These things 

will I do. 
For I liave never yet been over- 
thrown, 
And thou hast overthrown me, and my 

pride 
Is broken down, for Enid sees my 

fall ! " 
And rising up, he rode to Arthur's 

court. 
And there the Queen forgave him 

easily. 
And being voung, he changed and 

came to loathe 
His crime of traitor, slowly drew him- 
self 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



215 



Bright from his old dark life, and fell 

at last 
In the great battle fighting for the 

King. 

But when the third day from the 

hunting-morn 
Made a low splendor in the world, and 

wings 
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she 

lay 
With her fair head in the dim-yellow 

light, 
Among the dancing shadows of tlie 

birds, 
Woke and bethought her of her 

promise given 
No later than last eve to Prince 

Geraint — 
So bent lie seem'd on going the third 

day, 
He would not leave her, till her prom- 
ise given — 
To ride with him this morning to the 

court. 
And there be made known to the 

stately Queen, 
And there Tjc wedded with all cere- 
mony. 
At this she cast her eyes upon her 

dress. 
And thought it never yet had look'd 

so mean. 
For as a leaf in mid-November is 
To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 
The dress that now she look'd on to 

the dress 
She look'd on ere the coming of 

Geraint. 
And still she look'd, and still the 

terror grew 
Of that strange bright and dreadful 

thing, a court. 
All staring at her in her faded silk : 
And softly to her own sweet heart she 

said : 

" This noble prince who won our 
earldom back. 
So splendid in his acts and his attire, 
Sweet heaven, how much I shall dis- 
credit him ! 
Would he could tarry with us here 

awhile, 
But being so beholden to the Prince, 
It were but little grace in any of us. 
Bent as he seem'd on going this third 

day. 
To seek a second favor at his hands. 
Yet if he could but tarry a daj' or two, 
Mj'self would work eye dim, and finger 

lame, 
Far liefer than so much discredit him." 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All branch'd and flov.er'd with gold, 
a costly gift 



Of her good mother, given her on the 

night 
Before her birth day, three sad years 

ago, 
That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd 

their house. 
And scatter'd all they had to all the 

winds : 
For while the mother show'd it, and 

the two 
Were turning and admiring it, the 

work 
To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry 
That Edyrn's men were on them, and 

they fled 
With little saA-e the jewels thej' had 

on. 
Which being sold and sold had bought 

them bread : 
And Edyrn's men had caught them in 

their flight, 
And placed them in this ruin ; and 

slie wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her 

ancient home ; 
Then let her fancy flit across the past, 
And roam the goodly places that she 

knew ; 
And last bethought her how she used 

to watch, 
Near that old home, a pool of golden 

carp; 
And one was patch'd and blurr'd and 

lustreless 
Among his burnish'd brethren of the 

pool ; 
And half asleep she made comparison 
Of that and these to her own faded self 
And the gay court, and fell asleep 

again ; 
And dreamt herself was such a faded 

form 
Among her burnish'd sisters of the 

pool; 
But this was in the garden of a king ; 
And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she 

knew 
That all was bright ; that all about 

were birds 
Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-vrork ; 
That all the turf was rich in plots that 

look'd 
Each like a garnet or a turkis in it ; 
And lords and ladies of the high court 

went 
In silver tissue talking things of state ; 
And children of the King in cloth of 

gold 
Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down 

the walks ; 
And while she thought " They will 

not see me," came 
A stately queen whose name was 

Guinevere, 
And all the children in their cloth of 

gold 



216 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Ran to her, crying, " If we haA'e fish 

at all 
Let them be gold ; and charge tlie 

gardeners now 
To pick the faded creature from the 

pool. 
And cast it on the mixen that it die." 
And therewithal one came and seized 

on her, 
And Enid started waking, with her 

heart 
All overshadow'd by the foolish 

dream. 
And lo ! it was her mother grasping 

her 
To get her well awake ; and in her 

hand 
A suit of bright apparel, which she 

laid 
Flat on the couch, and spoke exult- 

ingly : 

" See here, my child, how fresh the 

colors look, 
How fast they hold like colors of a 

shell 
That keeps the wear and polish of the 

wave. 
AVhy not? It never yet was worn, I 

trow : 
Look on it, child, and tell me if ye 

know it." 

And Enid look'd. out all confused 
at first, 

Could scarce divide it from her foolish 
dream : 

Then suddenly she knew it and re- 
joiced. 

And answer'd, " Yea, I know it ; your 
good gift, 

So sadly lost on that unhappy night ; 

Your own good gift!" " Yea, surely," 
said the dame, 

" And gladly given again this happy 
morn. 

For when the jousts were ejided yes- 
terday. 

Went Yniol thro' the town, and every- 
where 

He found the sack and plunder of our 
house 

All scatter'd thro' the houses of the 
town ; 

And gave command that all which 
once was ours 

Should now be ours again : and yes- 
ter-eve. 

While ye were talking sweetly with 
your Prince, 

Came one with this and laid it in my 
hand. 

For love or fear, or seeking favor of 
us. 

Because we have our earldom back 
again. 



And yester-eve I would not tell you 

of it, 
But kept it for a sweet surprise at 

morn. 
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise ? 
For I myself unwillingly have worn 
My faded suit, as you, my child, have 

yours, 
And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly 

house, 
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous 

fare. 
And page, and maid, and squire, and 

seneschal, 
And pastime both of hawk and hound, 

and all 
That appertains to noble maintenance. 
Yea, and he brought me to a goodly 

house ; 
But since our fortune swerved from 

sun to shade. 
And all thro' that young traitor, cruel 

need 
Constrain'd us, but a better time has 

come ; 
So clothe yourself in this, that better 

fits 
Our mended fortunes and a Prince's 

bride : 
For tho' ye won the prize of fairest 

fair. 
And tho' I heard him call you fairest 

fair, 
Let never maiden think, however fair, 
She is not fairer in new clothes than 

old. 
And should some great court-lady 

say, the Prince 
Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the 

hedge. 
And like a madman brought her 

to the court, 
Then were ye shamed, and, worse, 

might shame the Prince 
To whom we are beholden; but I 

know. 
When my dear child is set forth at 

her best. 
That neither court nor country, tho' 

they sought 
Thro' all the provinces like those of 

old 
That lighted on Queen Esther, has 

her match." 

Here ceased the kindly mother out 

of breath ; 
And Enid.listen'd brightening as she 

lay; 
Then, as the white and glittering star 

of morn 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by 

and by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden 

rose, 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



217 



And left her maiden couch, and robed 

herself, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand 

and eye. 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous 

gown ; 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, 

and said, 
She never yet had seen her half so 

fair; 
And call'd her like that maiden in the 

tale, 
Whom Gwydion made by.glamoiir out 

of flowers. 
And sweeter than the bride of Cas- 

sivelaun, 
Flur, for whose love the Eoman 

Caesar first 
Invaded Britain, "But we beat him 

back. 
As this great Prince invaded us, and 

we, 
Not beat him back, but welcomed him 

with joy. 
And I can scarcely ride with yoii to 

court, 
For old am I, and rough the ways and 

wild ; 
But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall 

dream 
I see my princess as I see her now. 
Clothed with my gift, and gay among 

the gay." 

But while the women thus rejoiced, 

Geraint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, 

and call'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
Of that good mother making Enid 

gay 

In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately 

Queen, 
He answer'd : "Earl, entreat her by 

my love. 
Albeit I give no reason but my wish. 
That she ride with me in her faded 

silk." 
Yniol with that hard message went ; 

it fell 
Like flaws in summer laying lusty 

corn : 
For Enid, all abash'd she knew not 

why. 
Dared not to glance at her good 

mother's face, 
But silently, in all obedience. 
Her mother silent too, nor helping 

her, 
Laid from her limbs the costly-broid- 

er'd gift. 
And robed them in her ancient suit 

again. 
And so descended. Never man re- 
joiced 



More than Geraint to greet her thus 
attired ; 

And glancing all at once as keenly at 
her 

As careful robins eye the delver's toil. 

Made her clieek burn and either eye- 
lid fall. 

But rested with her sweet face satis- 
fied ; 

Then seeing cloud upon the mother's 
brow. 

Her by both hands he caught, and 
sweetly said. 



" my new mother, be not wroth 

or grieved 
At thy new son, for my petition to 

her. 
When late I left Caerleon, our great 

Queen, 
In words whose echo lasts, they were 

so sweet. 
Made promise, that whatever bride I 

brought. 
Herself would clothe her like the sun 

in Heaven. 
Thereafter, when I reach 'd this ruin'd 

hall. 
Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
I vow'd that could I gain her, our fair 

Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your 

Enid burst 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise 

thought perhaps. 
That service done so graciously would 

bind 
The two together; fain I would the 

two 
Should love each other: how can 

Enid find 
A nobler friend % Another thought 

was mine ; 
I came among you here so suddenly, 
That tho' her gentle presence at the 

lists 
i\Iight well have served for proof that 

I was loved, 
I doubted whether daughter's tender- 
ness. 
Or easy nature, might not let itself 
Be moulded by your wishes for her 

weal ; 
Or whether some false sense in her 

own self 
Of my contrasting brightness, over- 
bore 
Her fancy dwelling in this dusky 

hall ; 
And such a sense might make her 

long for court 
And all its perilous glories : and I 

thought. 
That could I someway prove such 

force in her 



21S 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Link'd with such love for mo, that at 

a word 
(No reason given her) she could cast 

aside 
A splendor dear to women, new to 

her, 
And therefore dearer; or if not so 

new, 
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the 

power 



Of intermitted usage ; tlien I felt 
That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and 

flows, 
Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I 

do rest, 
A prophet certain of my prophecy, 
That never shadow of mistrust can 

cross 
Between us. Grant me pardon for 

my thoughts : 



M^ 




" Now thrice that morniuf/ Gaiiieuere had climb'd the giant tower: 



And for my strange petition I will 

make 
Amends hereafter by some gaudy -day. 
When your fair child shall wear your 

costly gift 
Beside your own warm hearth, with, 

on her knees. 
Who knows "? another gift of the high 

God, 
Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to 

lisp you thanks." 

He spoke : the mother smiled, but 
half in tears. 



Then brought a mantle down and 

wrapt her in it. 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they 

rode away. 

Now thrice that morning Guinevere 
had climb'd 
The giant tower, from whose high 

crest, they say, 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails flying on the yellow 

sea; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow 
sea 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



219 



Look'd the fair Queen, but up the 

vale of Usk, 
By the flat meadow, till she saw them 

come ; 
And then descending met them at the 

gates, 
Embraced her with all welcome as a 

friend, 
And did her honor as the Prince's 

bride. 
And clothed her for her bridals like 

the sun; 
And all that week was old Caerleon 

gay, 
For by the hands of Dubric, the high 

saint, 
They twain were wedded with all 

ceremony. 

And this was on the last year's 

Whitsuntide. 
But Enid ever kept the faded silk. 
Remembering how first he came on 

her, 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved 

her in it. 
And all her foolish fears about the 

dress. 
And all his journey toward her, as 

himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 

court. 

And now this morning when he said 

to her, 
"Put on your worst and meanest 

dress," she found 
And took it, and array'd herself 

therein. 



O purblind race of miserable men, 
How many among us at this very hour 
Do forge a life-long trouble for our- 
selves, 
By taking true for false, or false for 

true ; 
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this 

world 
Groping, how many, until we pass and 

reach 
That other, where we see as we are 
seen ! 

So fared it with Geraint, who issu- 
ing forth 

That morning, when they both had 
got to horse, 

Perhaps because he loved her passion- 
ately, 

And felt that tempest brooding round 
his heart. 

Which, if he spoke at all, would break 
perforce 

Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 



" Not at my side. I charge thee ride 

before. 
Ever a good way on before ; and 

this 
I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, 
Whatever happens, not to speak to 

me. 
No, not a word ! " and Enid was 

aghast ; 
And forth they rode, but scarce three 

paces on. 
When crying out, " Effeminate as I 

am, 
I will not fight my way with gilded 

arms, 
All shall be iron ; " he loosed a mighty 

purse, 
Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it towarfl 

the squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of 

home 
Was all the marble threshold flashing, 

strown 
With gold and scatter'd coinage, and 

the squire 
Chafing his shoulder : then he cried 

again, 
" To the wilds ! " and Enid leading- 
down the tracks 
Thro' which he bade her lead him on, 

they past 
The marches, and by bandit-haunted 

holds, 
Gray swamps and pools, waste places 

of the hern. 
And wildernesses, perilous paths, they 

rode : 
Round was their pace at first, Init 

slacken 'd soon : 
A stranger meeting them had surely 

thought 
They rode so slowly and they look'd 

so pale. 
That each had suffer'd some exceed- 
ing wrong. 
For he was ever saying to himself, 
"01 that wasted time to tend upon 

her. 
To compass her with sweet obser- 
vances, 
To dress her beautifully and keep her 

true" — 
And there he broke the sentence in 

his heart 
Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 
May break it, when his passion mas- 
ters him. 
And she was ever praying the sweet 

heavens 
To save her dear lord whole from any 

wound. 
And ever in her mind slie cast 

about 
For that unnoticed failing in herself, 
Whicli made him look so cloudy and 

so cold ; 



220 



GEKAINT AND ENID. 



Till the great plover's human whistle 
amazed 

Her heart, and glancing round the 
waste she fear'd 

In every wavering brake an ambus- 
cade. 

Then thought again, " If there be such 
in me, 

I might amend it by the grace of 
Heaven, 

If he would onlj- speak and tell me of 
it." 

But when the fourth part of the day 

was gone, 
Then Enid was aware of three tall 

knights 
On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a 

rock 
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs 

all; 
And heard one crying to his fellow, 

" Look, 
Here comes a laggard hanging down 

his head, 
Who seems no bolder than a beaten 

hound ; 
Come, we will slay him and will have 

his horse 
And armor, and his damsel shall be 

ours." 

Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, 

and said ; 
" I will go back a little to my lord. 
And I will tell him all their caitiff 

talk ; 
For, be he wroth even to slaying me. 
Far liefer by his dear hand had I die. 
Than that my lord should suffer loss 

or shame." 

Then she went back some paces of 

return. 
Met his full frown timidly firm, and 

said ; 
" My lord, I saw three bandits by the 

rock 
Waiting to fall on you, and heard 

them boast 
That they would slay you, and possess 

your horse 
And armor, and your damsel should 

be theirs." 

He made a wrathful answer : " Did 

I wish 
Your warning or your silence ? one 

command 
1 laid upon you, not to speak to me, 
And thus ye keep it ! Well then, look 

— for now. 
Whether ye wish me victory or defeat, 
Long for my life, or hunger for my 

death. 
Yourself shall see my vigor is not 

lost." 



Then Enid waited pale and sorrow- 
ful. 
And down upon him bare the bandit 

three. 
And at the midmost charging, Prince 

Geraint 
Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his 

breast 
And out beyond ; and then against his 

brace 
Of comrades, each of whom had 

broken on him 
A lance that splinter'd like an icicle, 
Swung from his brand a windy buft'et 

out 
Once, twice, to right, to left, and 

stunn'd the twain 
Or slew them, and dismounting like a 

man 
That skins the wild beast after slaying 

him, 
Stript from the three dead wolves of 

woman born 
The three gay suits of armor which 

they wore, 
And let the bodies lie, but bound the 

suits 
Of armor on their horses, each on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the 

three 
Together, and said to her, "Drive 

them on 
Before you ; " and she drove them 

thro' the waste. 

He foUow'd nearer: ruth began to 

work 
Against his anger in him, while he 

watch'd 
The being he loved best in all the 

world, 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on : he fain had spoken 

to lier. 
And loosed in words of sudden fire the 

wrath 
And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him 

all within ; 
But evermore it seem'd an easier thing^ 
At once without remorse to strike her 

dead, 
Than to cry " Halt," and to her own 

bright face 
Accuse her of the least immodesty : 
And thus tongue-tied, it made him 

wroth the more 
That she could speak whom his own 

ear had heard 
Call herself false : and suffering thus 

he made 
Minutes an age : but in scarce longer 

time 
Than at Caerleon the full-tided LTsk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again, 
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, be- 
hold 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



11\ 



In the first shallow shade of a deep 

wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted 

oaks, 
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly 

arm'd. 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than 

her lord. 
And shook her pulses, crying, " Look, 

a prize ! 
Three horses and three goodly suits 

of arms, 
And all in charge of whom 1 a girl : 

set on." 
"Nay," said the second, "yonder 

comes a knight." 
The third, " A craven ; how he hangs 

his head." 
The giant answer'd merrily, "Yea, but 

one 7 
Wait here, and when he passes fall 

upon him." 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and 

said, 
" I will abide the coming of my lord. 
And I will tell him all their villany. 
My lord is weary with the fight before, 
And they will fall upon him unawares. 
I needs must disobey him for his 

good ; 
How should I dare obey him to his 

harm .' 
Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill 

me for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine." 

And she abode his coming, and said 

to him 
With timid firmness, "Have I leave 

to speak ? " 
He said, " Ye take it, speaking," and 

she spoke. 

"There lurk three villains yonder 

in the wood, 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, 

and one 
Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they 

say 
That they will fall upon you while ye 

pass." 

To whicli lie flung a wrathful an- 
swer back : 

" And if there were an hundred in the 
wood. 

And every man were larger-limb'd 
than I, 

And all at once should sally out upon 
me, 

I swear it would not ruffle me so much 

As you that not obey me. Stand 
aside, 

And if I fall, cleave to the better 
man." 



And Enid stood aside to wait the 

event. 
Not dare to watch the combat, only 

breathe 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a 

breath. 
And he, she dreaded most, bare down 

upon him. 
Aini'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but 

Goraint's, 
A little in tlie late encounter strain'd, 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corse- 
let home. 
And then brake short, and down his 

enemy roU'd, 
And there lay still; as he that tells 

the tale 
Saw once a great piece of a promon- 
tory. 
That had a sapling growing on it, 

slide 
From the long shore-cliff's windy walls 

to the beach, 
And there lie still, and yet the sapling 

grew : 
So lay the man transflxt. His craven 

pair 
Of comrades making slowlier at the 

Prince, 
When now they saw their bulwark 

fallen, stood; 
On whom the victor, to confound them 

more, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for 

as one, 
That listens near a torrent mountain- 
brook, 
All thro' the crash of the near cataract 

hears 
The drumming thunder of the huger 

fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to 

hear 
His voice in battle, and be kindled by 

it. 
And foemen scared, like that false 

pair who turn'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves liad wrought on many an 

innocent. 



Thereon Geraint, dismounting, 

pick'd the lance 
That pleased him best, and drew from 

those dead wolves 
Their three gay suits of armor, each 

from each. 
And bound them on their horses, eacli 

on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the 

three 
Together, and said to her, " Drive 

them on 
Before you," and she drove them thro' 

the wood. 



222 



GERALyr AXD E.V/D. 



He follow'd nearer still : the pain 

she had 
To keep them in the wild ways of the 

wood, 
Two sets of three laden with jingling 

arms, 
Together, served a little to disedge 
The sharpness of that pain about her 

heart : 
And they themselves, like creatures 

gently born 
lUit into bad hands fall'n, and now so 

long 
iBy bandits groom'd, prick'd their light 

ears, and felt 
Her low firm voice and tender govern- 
ment. 

So thro' the green gloom of the wood 

they past, 
And issuing under open heavens be- 
held 
A little town with towers, upon a 

rock. 
And close beneatli, a meadow gemlike 

chased 
In the brown wild, and mowers mow- 
ing in it : 
And down a rocky pathway from the 

place 
There came a fair-hair'd youth, that 

in his hand 
Bare victual for the mowers : and 

Geraint 
Had ruth again on Enid looking pale : 
Then, moving downward to the 

meadow ground. 
He, when the fair-hair'd youth came 

by him, said, 
" Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so 

faint." 
"Yea, willingly," replied the youth; 

" and thou. 
My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is 

coarse, 
And only meet for mowers ; " then set 

down 
His basket, and dismounting on the 

sward 
They let the horses graze, and ate 

themselves. 
And Enid took a little delicately. 
Less having stomach for it than desire 
To close with her lord's pleasure ; but 

Geraint 
Ate all the mowers' victual unawares. 
And when he found all empty, was 

amazed ; 
And, "Bo}%" said he, "I have eaten 

all, but take 
A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose 

the best." 
He, reddening in extremity of delight, 
" My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold." 
" Ye will be all the wealthier," cried 

the Prince. 



" I take it as free gift, then," said the 

boy, 
" Not guerdon ; for myself can easily. 
While your good damsel rests, return, 

and fetch 
Fresh victual for these mowers of our 

Earl; 
For these are his, and all the field is 

his, 
And I myself am his ; and 1 will tell 

him 
How great a man thou art : he loves 

to know 
When men of mark are in his terri- 
tory : 
And he will have thee to his palace 

here, 
And serve thee costlier than with 

mowers' fare." 

Then said Geraint, "I wish no better 
fare : 

I never ate with angrier appetite 

Than when I left your mowers dinner- 
less. 

And into no Earl's palace will I go. 

I know, God knows, too much of 
palaces! 

And if he want me, let him come to 
me. 

But hire us some fair chamber for the 
night. 

And stalling for the horses, and re- 
turn 

With victual for these men, and let 
us know." 

" Yea, my kind lord," said the glad 
youth, and went, 

Held his head high, and thought him- 
self a knight, 

And up the rocky pathway disap- 
pear'd, 

Leading the horse, and they were left 
alone. 

But when the Prince had brought 

his errant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let 

them glance 
At Enid, where she droopt : his own 

false doom, 
That shadow of mistrust should never 

cross 
Betwixt them, came upon him, and he 

sigh'd ; 
Then with another humorous ruth re- 

mark'd 
The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless. 
And watch'd the sun blaze on the 

turning scythe. 
And after nodded sleepily in the 

heat. 
But she, remembering her old ruin'd 

hall. 
And all the windy clamor of the daws 



GERAhXT AND ENID. 



223 



About her hollow turret, pluck'd the 

grass 
There growing longest by tlio mead- 
ow's edge, 
And into many a listless annulet, 
Now over, now beneath her marriage 

ring. 
Wove and unwove it, till the boy re- 

turn'd 
And told them of a chamber, and they 

went ; 
Where, after saying to her, "If ye 

will, 
Call for the woman of the house," to 

which 
She answer'd, "Thanks, my lord;" 

the two remain'd 
Apart by all the chamber's width, and 

mute 
As creatures voiceless thro' the fault 

of birth. 
Or two wild men supporters of a 

shield. 
Painted, who stare at open space, nor 

glance 
The one at other, parted by the shield. 

On a sudden, many a voice along 
the street. 

And heel against the pavement echo- 
ing, burst 

Their drowse ; and either started while 
the door, 

Push'd from without, drave backward 
to the wall, 

And midmost of a rout of roisterers. 

Femininely fair and dissolutely pale. 

Her suitor in old years before Geraint, 

Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, 
Limours. 

He moving up with pliant courtli- 
ness. 

Greeted Geraint full face, but 
stealthily. 

In the mid-warmth of welcome and 
graspt hand. 

Found Enid with the corner of his 
eye. 

And knew her sitting sad and solitary. 

Then cried Geraint for wine and 
goodly cheer 

To feed the sudden guest, and sump- 
tuously 

According to his fashion, bade the 
host 

Call in what men soever were his 
friends. 

And feast with these in honor of their 
Earl; 

" And care not for the cost ; the cost 
is mine." 

And wine and food were brought, 
and Earl Limours 
Drank till he jested with all ease, and 
told 



Free tales, and took the word and 

play'd upon it. 
And made it of two colors ; for his 

talk. 
When wine and free companions 

kindled him, 
Was wont to glance and sparkle like 

a gem 
Of fifty facets ; thus he moved the 

Prince 
To laughter and his comrades to ap- 
plause. 
Then, when the Prince was merry, 

' ask'd Limours, 
" Your leave, my lord, to cross the 

room, and speak 
To your good damsel there who sits 

apart, 
And seems so lonely ? " " My free 

leave," he said ; 
" Get her to speak : she doth not speak 

to me." 
Then rose Limours, and looking at his 

feet. 
Like him who tries the bridge he fears 

may fail, 
Crost and came near, lifted adoring 

eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisper- 

ingly : 

" Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, 
Enid, my early and my only love, 
Enid, the loss of whom hath turn'd me 

wild — 
What chance is this ? how is it I see 

you here ? 
Ye are in my power at last, are in my 

power. 
Yet fear me not : I call mine own self 

wild. 
But keep a touch of sweet civility 
Here in the heart of waste and wilder- 
ness. 
I thought, but that your father came 

between, 
In former days you saw me favorably. 
And if it were so do not keep it back : 
Make me a little happier: let me 

know it : 
Owe you me nothing for a life half- 
lost ? 
Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all 

you are. 
And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy, 
Ye sit apart, you do not speak to 

him. 
You come with no attendance, page or 

maid. 
To serve you — doth he love you as of 

old? 
For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know 
Tho' men may bicker with the things 

they love, 
They would not make them laughable 

in all eyes, 



224 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Not while they loved them ; and your 

■wretched dress, 
A wretched insult on you, dumbly 

speaks 
Your story, that this man loves \o\\ 

no more. 
Your beauty is no beauty to him now : 
A common chance — right well I know 

it — pall'd — 
Tor I know men : nor will ye win him 

back, 
For the man's love once gone never 

returns. 
But here is one who loves you as of old ; 
With more exceeding passion than of 

old: 
Good, speak the word : my followers 

ring him round : 
He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ; 
They understand : nay ; I do not mean 

blood : 
Nor need ye look so scared at what I 

say : 
My malice is no deeper than a moat, 
No stronger than a wall : there is the 

keep; 
He shall not cross us more ; speak but 

the word : 
Or speak it not ; but then by Him that 

made me 
The one true lover whom you ever 

own'd, 
I will make use of all the power I liave. 
O pardon me ! the madness of that 

hour. 
When first I parted from thee, moves 

me yet." 

At this the tender sound of his own 

voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it 
Made his eye moist ; but Enid f ear'd 

his eyes. 
Moist as they were, wine-heated from 

the feast; 
And answer'd with such craft as 

women use. 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a 

chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, 

and said : 

" Earl, if you love me as in former 

years, 
And do not practise on me, come with 

morn, 
And snatch me from him as by 

violence ; 
Leave me to-night : I am weary to the 

death." 

Low at leave-taking, with his bran- 
dish'd plume 
Brushing his instep, bow'd the all- 
amorous Earl, 



And tlie stout Prince bade liim a loud 

good-night. 
He moving homeward babbled to his 

men, 
How Enid never loved a man but him, 
Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her 

lord. 

But Enid left alone with Prince 

Geraint, 
Debating his command of silence 

given, 
And tliat she now perforce must vio- 
late it, 
Held commune with herself , and while 

she held 
He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 
To wake him, but hung o'er him, 

wholly pleased 
To find him yet un wounded after fight. 
And hear liim breathing low and 

equally. 
Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, 

heap'd 
The pieces of his armor in one place. 
All to be there against a sudden need ; 
Then dozed awhile herself, but over- 

toil'd 
By that day's grief and travel, ever- 
more 
Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, 

and then 
Went slipping down horrible prec- 
ipices, 
And strongly striking out her limbs 

awoke ; 
Then thought she heard the wild Earl 

at the door. 
With all his rout of random followers, 
Sound on a dreadful trumpet, sum- 
moning her ; 
Which was the red cock shouting to 

the light. 
As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy 

world. 
And glimmer'd on his armor in the 

room. 
And once again she rose to look at it. 
But touch'd it unawares: jangling, 

the casque 
Fell, and he started ujj and stared at 

her. 
Then breaking his command of silence 

given, 
She told liim all that Earl Limours 

liad said. 
Except the passage that he loved lier 

not ; 
Nor left untold the craft herself had 

used ; 
But ended with apology so sweet. 
Low-spoken, and of so few words, and 

seem'd 
So justified by tliat necessity. 
That tho' he thought " was it for him 

she wept 



GEKAINT AND ENID. 



11^ 



In Devon ? " he but gave a wrathful 

groan, 
Saying, " Your sweet faces make good 

fellows fools 
And traitors. Call the host and bid 

him bring 
Charger and palfrey." So she glided 

out 
Among the heavy breathings of the 

house. 
And like a household Spirit at the 

walls 
Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and 

return'd : 
Then tending her rough lord, the' all 

unask'd, 
In silence, did him service as a squire ; 
Till issuing arm'd he found the host 

and cried, 
"Thy reckoning, friend ? " and ere he 

learnt it, " Take 
Five horses and their armors " ; and 

the host 
Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 
"My lord, I scarce have spent the 

worth of one ! " 
" Ye will be all the wealthier," said 

the Prince, 
And then to Enid, " Forward ! and 

to-day 
I charge you, Enid, more especially, 
Wliat thing soever ye may hear, or see. 
Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use 
To charge you) that ye speak not but 

obey." 

And Enid answer'd, " Yea, my lord, 
I know 

Your wish, and would obey ; but rid- 
ing first, 

I liear the violent threats you do not 
hear, 

I see the danger which you cannot see : 

Then not to give you warning, that 
seems hard ; 

Almost beyond me: yet I would 
obey." 

" Yea so," said he, " do it : be not 

too wise ; 
Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, 
Not all mismated with a yawning 

clown. 
But one with arms to guard his head 

and yours. 
With eyes to find you out however 

far. 
And ears to hear you even in his 

dreams." 

With that he turn'd and look'd as 

keenly at her 
As careful robins eye the delver's 

toil; 
And that within her, which a wanton 

fool. 



Or hasty judger would havecall'd her 
guilt. 

Made her cheek burn and either eye- 
lid fall. 

And Geraint look'd and was not satis- 
fied. 

Then forward by a way which, 

beaten broad. 
Led from the territory of false 

Limours 
To the waste earldom of another earl, 
Doorm, whom his shaking vassal.s 

call'd the Bull, 
Went Enid with her sullen follower 

on. 
Once she look'd back, and when she 

saw liini ride 
More near by many a rood than yes- 

termorn. 
It wellnigh made her cheerful ; till 

Geraint 
Waving an angry hand as who should 

say 
" Yewatch nie,"sadden'dall her heart 

again. 
But while the sun yet beat a dewy 

blade. 
The sound of many a lieavily-galloi)- 

ing hoof 
Smote on her ear, and turning round 

she saw 
Dust, and the points of lances bicker 

in it. 
Then not to disobey her lord's behest. 
And yet to give him warning, for he 

rode 
As if he heai'd not, moving back she 

held 
Her finger up, and pointed to the 

dust. 
At which the warrior in his obstinacy, 
Because she kept the letter of his 

word, 
Was in a manner pleased, and turning, 

stood. 
And in the moment after, wild 

Limoui'S, 
Borne on a black liorse, like a thun- 
der-cloud 
Whose skirts are loosen'd by the 

breaking storm. 
Half ridden off with by the thing he 

rode. 
And all in passion uttering a dry 

shriek, 
Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with 

him, and bore 
Down by the length of lance and arm 

beyond 
The crupper, and so left him stunn'd 

or dead. 
And overthrew the next that f oUow'd 

him. 
And blindly rush'd on all the rout 

behind. 



226 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



But at the flash and motion of the 

man 
They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a 

shoal 
Of darting fish, that on a summer 

morn 
Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot 
Come slipping o'er their shadows on 

the sand, 
But if a man who stands upon the 

brink 
But lift a shining hand against the 

sun, 
There is not left the twinkle of a fin 
Betwixt the cressy islets white in 

flower ; 
So, scared but at the motion of the 

man. 
Fled all the been companions of the 

Earl, 
And left him lying in the public way ; 
So vanish friendships only made in 

wine. 

Then like a stormj"^ sunlight smiled 

Geraint, 
Who saw the chargers of the two that 

fell 
Start from their fallen lords, and 

wildly fly, 
Mixt with the flyers. " Horse and 

man," he said, 
" All of one mind and all right-honest 

friends ! 
Not a hoof left : and I methinks till 

now 
Was honest — paid with horses and 

with arms ; 
I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : 
And so what say ye, shall we strip 

him there 
Your lover? has your palfrey heart 

enough 
To bear his armor ? shall we fast, or 

dine 'i 
No 1 — then do thou, being right hon- 
est, pray 
That we may meet the horsemen of 

Earl Doorm, 
I too would still be honest." Thus 

he said : 
And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins. 
And answering not a word, she led the 

way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful 

loss 
Falls in a far land and he knows it 

not, 
But coming back he learns it, and the 

loss 
So pains liim that he sickens nigh to 

death ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who being 

prick'd 



In combat with the follower of 

Limours, 
Bled underneath his armor secretly. 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle 

wife 
What ail'd him, hardly knowing it 

himself. 
Till his eye darken'd and his helmet 

wagg'd ; 
And at a sudden swerving of the 

road, 
Tho' happily down on a bank of grass. 
The Prince, without a word, from his 

horse fell. 



And Enid heard the clashing of his 

fall, 
Suddenly came, and at his side all 

pale 
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of 

his arms. 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue 

eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his 

wound. 
And tearing off her veil of faded silk 
Had bared lier forehead to the blister- 
ing sun. 
And swathed the hurt that drain'd lier 

dear lord's life. 
Then after all was done that hand 

could do, 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the 

way. 

And many past, but none regarded 

her. 
For in that realm of lawless turbu- 
lence, 
A woman weeping for her murder'd 

mate 
Was cared as much for as a summer 

shower : 
One took him for a victim of Earl 

Doorm, 
Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on 

him : 
Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, 
Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl; 
Half whistling and half singing a 

coarse song, 
He drove the dust against her veilless 

eyes: 
Another, flying from the wrath of 

Doorm 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
The long way smoke beneath him in 

his fear ; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted 

heel 
And scour'd into the coppices and was 

lost. 
While the great charger stood, grieved 

like a man. 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



in 



But at the point of noon the huge 

Earl Doorm, 
Broad-faced with under-fringe of rus- 
set beard, 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of 

prey, 
Came riding with a hundred lances 

up; 
But ere he came, like one that hails a 

ship. 
Cried out with a big voice, " What, is 

he dead ? " 
" No, no, not dead ! " she answer'd in 

all haste. 
" "Would some of your kind people 

take him up, 
And bear him hence out of this cruel 

sun? 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not 

dead." 

Then said Earl Doorm : " Well, if 

he be not dead. 
Why wail ye for him thus ? ye seem a 

child. 
And be he dead, I count you for a 

fool ; 
Your wailing will not quicken him : 

dead or not. 
Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some 

of you, 
Here, take him up, and bear him to 

our hall : 
An if he live, we will have him of our 

band; 
And if he die, why earth has earth 

enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger 

too, 
A noble one." 

He spake, and past away. 

But left two brawny spearmen, who 
advanced. 

Each growling like a dog, when his 
good bone 

Seems to be pluck'd at by the village 
boys 

Who love to vex him eating, and he 
fears 

To lose his bone, and lays his foot 
upon it, 

Gnawing and growling : so the ruffians 
growl'd. 

Fearing to lose, and all for a dead 
man. 

Their chance of booty from the morn- 
ing's raid. 

Yet raised and laid him on a litter- 
bier. 

Such as they brought upon their forays 
out 

For those that might be wounded ; laid 
him on it 



All in the hollow of his shield, and 

took 
And bore him to the naked hall of 

. Doorm, 
(His gentle charger following him 

unled) 
And cast him and the bier in whicli 

he lay 
Down on an oaken settle in the hall, 
And then departed, hot in haste to 

join 
Their luckier mates, but growling as 

before. 
And cursing their lost time, and the 

dead man, 
And their own Earl, and their own 

souls, and her. 
They might as well have blest her : 

she was deaf 
To blessing or to cursing save from 

one. 

So for long hours sat Enid by her 
lord, 

There in the naked hall, propping his 
head, 

And chafing his pale hands, and call- 
ing to him. 

Till at the last he waken'd from his 
swoon, 

And found his own dear bride prop- 
ping his head. 

And chafing his faint hands, and 
calling to him ; 

And felt the warm tears falling on his 
face ; 

And said to his own heart, " She weeps 
for iTie " : 

And yet lay still, and feign'd himself 
as dead. 

That he might prove her to the utter- 
most, 

And say to his own heart, " She weeps 
for me." 

But in the falling afternoon return'd 
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder 

to the hall. 
His lusty spearmen foUow'd him with 

noise : 
Each hurling down a heap of things 

that rang 
Against the pavement, cast his lance 

aside. 
And dofl'd his helm : and then there 

flutter'd in. 
Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated 

eyes, 
A tribe of women, dress'd in many 

hues. 
And mingled with the spearmen : and 

Earl Doorm 
Struck with a knife's haft hard 

against the board. 
And call'd for flesh and wine to feed 

his spears. 



228 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



And men brought in whole hogs and 

quarter beeves, 
And all the hall was dim with steam 

of flesh : 
And none spake word, but all sat 

down at once. 
And ate with tumult in the naked 

hall. 
Feeding like horses when 3-ou hear 

them feed ; 
Till Enid shrank far back into herself, 
To shun the wild ways of the lawless 

tribe. 
But when Earl Doorm had eaten all 

he would, 
He roU'd his eyes about the hall, and 

found 
A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 
Then he remember'd her, and how she 

wept; 
And out of her there came a power 

upon him ; 
And rising on the sudden he said, 

"Eat! 
I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 
God's curse, it makes me mad to see 

you Aveep. 
Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had 

your good man. 
For W'ere I dead who is it would 

weep for me ? 
Sweet lady, never since I first drew 

breath 
Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 
And so there lived some color in your 

cheek, 
There is not one among my gentle- 
women 
Were fit to wear your slipper for a 

glove. 
But listen to me, and by me be 

ruled. 
And I will do the thing I have not 

done, 
For ye shall share my earldom with 

me, girl. 
And we will live like two birds in one 

nest. 
And I will fetch you forage from all 

fields, 
For I compel all creatures to my will." 

He spoke : the brawny spearman 

let his cheek 
Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and 

turning stared ; 
While some, whose souls the old ser- 
pent long had drawn 
Down, as tlie worm draws in the 

wither'd leaf 
And makes it earth, hiss'd each at 

other's ear 
What shall not be recorded — women 

they, 
Women, or what had been those 

gracious things, 



But now desired the humbling of their 
best. 

Yea, would have help'd him to it : and 
all at once 

Tliey hated her, who took no thought 
of them. 

But answer'd in low voice, her meek 
head yet 

Drooping, " I pray you of your cour- 
tesy, 

He being as he is, to let me be." 

She spake so low he hardly heard 
her speak. 

But like a mighty patron, satisfied 

With what himself had done so gra- 
ciously. 

Assumed that she had thank'd him, 
adding, " Yea, 

Eat and be glad, for I account you 
mine." 

She answer'd meekly, " How should 
I be glad 

Henceforth in all the world at any- 
thing. 

Until my lord arise and look upon 
me ? " 

Here the huge Earl cried out upon 
her talk. 

As all but empty heart and weariness 

And sickly nothing; suddenly seized 
on her. 

And bare her by main violence to the 
board. 

And thrust the dish before her, cry- 
ing, " Eat." 

" No, no," said Enid, vext, " I will 

not eat 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise. 
And eat with me." "Drink, then," 

he answer'd. " Here ! ' 
(And fiU'd a horn with wine and held 

it to her,) 
" Lo ! I, myself, when flush'd with 

fight, or hot, 
God's curse, with anger — often I 

myself. 
Before I well have drunken, scarce 

can eat : 
Drink therefore and the wine will 

change your will." 

" Not so," she cried, "By Heaven, I 

will not drink 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do 

it. 
And drink with me ; and if he rise no 

more, 
I will not look at wine until I die." 

At this he turn'd all red and paced 
his hall. 
Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper 
lip, 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



229 



And coming up close to lier, said at 

last : 
" Girl, for I see ye scorn my courte- 
sies, 
Take warning : yonder man is surely 

dead ; 
And I compel all creatures to my 

will. 
Not eat nor drink ? And wherefore 

wail for one, 
Who put your beauty to this flout and 

scorn 
By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am 

I, 
Beholding how ye butt against my 

wish, 
That I forbear you thus : cross me 

no more. , 
At least put off to please me this poor 

gown. 
This silken rag, this beggar-woman's 

weed : 
I love that beauty should go beauti- 
fully : 
For see ye not my gentlewomen here, 
How gay, how suited to the house of 

one 
Who loves that beauty should go 

beautifully % 
Else therefore ; robe yourself in this : 

obey." 

He spoke, and one among his gen- 
tle-women 
Display'd a splendid silk of foreign 

loom. 
Where like a shoaling sea the lovely 

blue 
Play'd into green, and thicker down 

the front 
With jewels than the sward with 

drops of dew, 
When all night long a cloiid clings 

to the hill. 
And with the dawn ascending lets the 

day 
Strike where it clung: so thickly 

shone the gems. 

But Enid answer'd, harder to be 
moved 

Than hardest tyrants in their day of 
power, 

With life-long injuries burning un- 
avenged, 

And now their hour has come ; and 
Enid said : 

" In this poor gown my dear lord 

found me first. 
And loved me serving in my father's 

hall: 
In this poor gown I rode with him to 

court, 
And there the Queen array'd me like 

the sun : 



In this poor gown he bade me clothe 

myself. 
When now we rode upon this fatal 

quest 
Of honor, where no honor can be 

gain'd: 
And this poor gown I will not cast 

aside 
Until himself arise a living man, 
And bid me cast it. I have griefs 

enough : 
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me 

be : 
I never loved, can never love but him : 
Yea, God, I pray you of your gentle- 
ness, 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

Then strode the brute Earl up and 

down his hall, 
And took his russet beard between his 

teeth ; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in his 

mood 
Crying, " I count it of no more avail. 
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle witli 

you; 
Take my salute," unknightly with flat 

hand. 
However lightly, smote her on the 

cheek. 

Then Enid, in her utter helplessness. 
And since she thought, " He had not 

dared to do it. 
Except he surely knew ray lord was 

dead," 
Sent forth a sudden sharp arid bitter 

cry. 
As of a wild thing taken in the trap, 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' 

the wood. 

This heard Geraint, and grasping at 

his sword, 
(It lay beside him in the hollow 

shield), 
Made but a single bound, and with a 

sweep of it 
Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like 

a ball 
The russet-bearded head roU'd on the 

floor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he counted 

dead. 
And all the men and women in the 

hall 
Rose when they saw the dead man 

rise, and fled 
Yelling as from a spectre, and the two 
Were left alone together, and he said : 

" Enid, I have used you worse than 
that dead man ; 
Done you more wrong: we both have 
UMdergone 



230 



GERAINT AND ENID. 




"He turn'd his /ace 
And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms 
About him, and at once thei/ rode away." 



That trouble which lias loft inc tlirioi' 

your own : 
Henceforward I will rather die than 

doubt. 
And here I lay this penance on my- 
self, 
Xot, tho' mine own ears heard you 

yestermorn — 
Vou thought me sleeping, but I heard 

you say, 
I heard you say, that you were no true 

wife : 
I swear I will not ask your meaning 

in it : 



1 do believe yourself against yourself, 
And will henceforward rather die than 
doubt." 

And iMiid could not say one tender 

word, 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the 

, heart ; 

She only pray' dhim, "Fly, they will 

return 
And slay you ; fly, your charger is 

without. 
My palfrey lost." " Then, Enid, shall 

you ride 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



231 



Behind me." "Yea," said Enid, "let 

us go." 
And moving out they found tlie stately 

horse, 
Who now no more a vassal to the 

thief, 
But free to stretch liis limbs in lawful 

fight, 
Neigh'd with all gladness as they 

came, and stoop'd 
With a low whinny toward the pair : 

and slie 
Kiss'd the white star upon his noble 

front. 
Glad also; then Geraint upon the 

horse 
Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and (m 

his foot 
She set her own and climb'd ; he turn'd 

his face 
And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast 

her arms 
About him, and at once they rode 

away. 

And never»yet, since high in Para- 
dise 

O'er the four rivers the first roses blew. 

Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 

Than lived thro' her, who in that per- 
ilous hour 

Put hand to hand beneath her hus- 
band's heart. 

And felt him hers again : she did not 
weep, 

But o'er her meek eyes came a happy 
mist 

Like that which kept the heart of 
Eden green 

Before the useful trouble of the rain: 

Yet not so misty were her meek blue 
eyes 

As not to see before them on the path, 

Right in the gatewav of the bandit 
hold, 

A knight of Arthur's court, who laid 
his lance 

In rest, and made as if to fall upon 
him. 

Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of 
blood. 

She, with her mind all full of what 
had chanced, 

Shriek'd to the stranger " Slay not a 
dead man ! " 

" The voice of Enid," said the knight ; 
but she, 

Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, 

Was moved so much the more, and 
shriek'd again, 

" cousin, slay not him who gave you 
life." 

And Edyrn moving frankly forward 
spake : 

" My lord Geraint, I greet you with 
all love ; 



1 took you for a l)andit knight of 

Doorm ; 
And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon 

him. 
Who love you. Prince, with something 

of the love 
Wherewith we love the Heaven that 

chastens us. 
For once, when I was up so high in 

pride 
That I was half-way down the slope 

to Hell, 
By overthrowing me you threw me 

higher. 
Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table 

Round, 
And since I knew this Earl, when I 

myself 
Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 
I come the mouthpiece of our King to 

Doorm 
(The King is close behind me) bidding 

him 
Disband himself, and scatter all his 

powers. 
Submit, and hear the judgment of tlie 

Iving." 

" He hears the judgment of the King 

of kings," 
Cried the wan Prince ; " and lo, the 

powers of Doorm 
Are scatter'd," and he pointed to the 

field. 
Where, huddled here and there on 

mound and knoll. 
Were men and women staring and 

aghast, 
While some yet fled ; and then he 

plainlier told 
How the huge Earl lay slain within 

his hall. 
But when the knight besought him, 

" Follow me, 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's 

own ear 
Speak what has chanced ; ye surely 

have endured 
Strange chances here alone ; " that 

other flush'd. 
And hung his head, and halted in 

reply, 
Fearing the mild face of the blameless 

King, 
And after madness acted question 

ask'd : 
Till Edyrn crying, " If ye will not go 
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to 

you." 
" Enough," he said, " I follow," and 

they went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears, 
One from the bandit scatter'd in the 

field. 
And one from Edyrn. Every now 

and then, 



232 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



When Edyrn rein'd his charger at 

her side, 
She shrank a little. In a hollow land, 
From which old fires have broken, 

men may fear 
Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, 

said : 



"Fair and dear cousin, you that 

most had cause 
To fear me, fear no longer, I am 

changed. 
Yourself were first the blameless 

cause to make 
My nature's prideful sparkle in the 

blood 
Break into furious flame ; being re- 
pulsed 
By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and 

wrought 
Until I overturn'd him ; then set up 
(With one main purpose ever at my 

heart) 
My haughty jousts, and took a para- 
mour ; 
Did her mock-honor as the fairest 

fair. 
And, toppling over all antagonism. 
So wax'd in pride, that I believed 

myself 
Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh 

mad : 
And, but for my main purpose in 

these jousts, 
I should have slain your father, seized 

yourself. 
I lived in hope that sometime you 

would come 
To these my lists with him whom best 

you loved ; 
And there, poor cousin, with your 

meek blue eyes, 
The truest eyes that ever answer'd 

Heaven, 
Behold me overturn and trample on 

him. 
Then, had you cried, or knelt, or 

pray'd to me, 
I should not less have kill'd him. 

And you came, — 
But once you came, — and with your 

own true eyes 
Beheld the man you loved (I speak as 

one 
Speaks of a service done him) over- 
throw 
My proud self, and my purpose three 

years old. 
And set his foot upon me, and give 

me life. 
There was I broken down ; there was 

I saved : 
Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating 

the life 
He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. 



And all the penance the Queen laid 

upon me 
Was but to rest awhile within her 

court ; 
Where first as sullen as a beast new- 
caged. 
And waiting to be treated like a 

wolf, 
Because I knew my deeds were known, 

I found. 
Instead of scornful pit}' or pure scorn. 
Such fine reserve and noble reticence. 
Manners so kind, yet stately, such a 

grace 
Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 
To glance behind me at my former 

life, 
And find that it had been the wolf's 

indeed : 
And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high 

saint, 
AVho, with mild heat of holy oratory, 
Subdued me somewhat to that gentle- 
ness. 
Which, when it weds with manhood, 

makes a man. • 
And you were often there about the 

Queen, 
But saw me not, or mark'd not if you 

saw; 
Nor did I care or dare to speak with 

you. 
But kept myself aloof till I was 

changed; 
And fear not, cousin; lam changed 

indeed." 

He spoke, and Enid easily believed. 
Like simple noble natures, credulous 
Of what they long for, good in friend 

or foe, 
There most in those who most have 

done them ill. 
And when they reach'd the camp the 

King himself 
Advanced to greet them, and behold- 
ing her 
Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a 

word. 
But went apart with Edyrn, whom he 

held 
In converse for a little, and return'd. 
And, gravely smiling, lifted her from 

horse, 
And kiss'd her with all pureness, 

brother-like. 
And show'd an empty tent allotted 

her. 
And glancing for a minute, till he saw 

her 
Pass into it, turn'd to the Prince, and 

said : 

" Prince, when of late ye pray'd me 
for my leave 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



233 



To move to your own land, and there 

defend 
Your marches, I was prick'd with 

some reproof, 
As one that let foul wrong stagnate 

and be, 
By having look'd too much thro' alien 

eyes, 
And wrought too long with delegated 

liands, 
Not used mine own : but now behold 

me come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all 

my realm, 
With Edyrn and with others : have 

ye look'd 
At Edyrn ! have ye seen how nobly 

■ changed 1 
This work of his is great and wonder- 
ful. 
His ver}' face with change of heart is 

changed. 
The world will not believe a man 

repents : 
And this wise world of ours is mainly 

right. 
Full seldom doth a man repent, or use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious 

quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of 

him, 
And make all clean, and plant himself 

afresh. 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his 

heart 
As I will weed this land before I go. 
I, therefore, made him of our Table 

Round, 
Not rashly, but have proved him 

everyway 
One of our noblest, our most valorous, 
Sanest and most obedient : and indeed 
This work of Edyrn wrought upon 

himself 
After a life of violence, seems to me 
A thousand-fold more great and won- 
derful 
Than if some knight of mine, risking 

his life, 
My subject witla my subjects under 

liim, 
Should make an onslaught single on 

a realm 
Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by 

one. 
And were himself nigh wounded to 

the death." 

So spake the King ; low bow'd the 
Prince, and felt 

His work was neither great nor won- 
derful, 

And past to Enid's tent ; and thither 
came 

The King's own leech to look into his 
hurt ; 



And Enid tended on him there ; and 

there 
Her constant motion round him, and 

the breath 
Of lier sweet tendance hovering over 

him, 
Fill'd all the genial courses of his 

blood 
With deeper and with ever deeper 

love. 
As the south-west that blowing Bala 

lake 
Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the 

days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of 

his hurt, 
The blameless King went forth and 

cast his eyes 
On each of all whom Uther left in 

charge 
Long since, to guard the justice of the 

King : 
He look'd and found them wanting ; 

and as now 
Men weed the white horse on the 

Berkshire hills 
To keep him bright and clean as here- 
tofore, 
He rooted out the slothful officer 
Or guilty, whicli for bribe had wink'd 

at wrong. 
And in their chairs set up a stronger 

race 
With hearts and hands, and sent a 

thousand men 
To till tlie wastes, and moving every- 
where 
Clear'd the dark places and let in the 

law, 
And broke the bandit holds and 

cleansed the land. 

Then, when Geraint was whole 

again, they past 
With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 
There the great Queen once more em- 
braced her friend. 
And clothed her in apparel like the 

day. 
And tho' Geraint could never take 

again 
That comfort from their converse 

which he took 
Before the Queen's fair name was 

breathed upon, 
He rested well content that all was 

well. 
Thence after tarrying for a space they 

rode. 
And fifty knights rode with them to 

the shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land. 
And there he kept tlie justice of the 

King 



234 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



So vigorously yet mildly, that all 

hearts 
Applauded, and the spiteful whisper 

died : 
And being ever foremost in the chase. 
And victor at the tilt and tournament. 
They call'd him the great Prince and 

man of men. 
But Enid, whom the ladies loved to 

call 
Enid the Fair, a grateful people 

named 
Enid the Good ; and in their halls 

arose 
The cry of children, Enids and 

Geraints 
Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her 

more, 
But rested in her fealty, till he 

crown'd 
A happy life with a fair death, and 

fell 
Against the heathen of the Northern 

Sea 
In battle, fighting for the blameless 

King. 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 

A STORM was coming, but the winds 

were still. 
And in the wild woods of Broceliande, 
Before an oak, so hollow, huge and 

old 
It look'datowerof ruin'd masonwork. 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. 

Whence came she ? One that bare 
in bitter grudge 

The scorn of Arthur and his Table, 
Mark 

The Cornish King, had heard a wan- 
dering voice, 

A minstrel of Caerleon by strong storm 

Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say 

That out of naked knightlike purity 

Sir Lancelot worship! no unmarried 
girl 

But the great Queen herself, fought 
in her name, 

Sware \>y her — vows like theirs, that 
high in heaven 

Love most, but neither marry, nor are 
given 

In marriage, angels of our Lord's re- 
port. 

He ceased, and then — for Vivien 

sweetly said 
(She sat beside the banquet nearest 

Mark), 
" And is the fair example follow'd. 

Sir, 
In Arthur's household? " — answer'd 

innocently : 



" Ay, by some few — ay, truly — 
youths that hold 

It more beseems the perfect virgin 
knight 

To worship woman as true wife be- 
yond 

All hopes of gaining, than as maiden 
girl. 

They place their pride in Lancelot and 
the Queen. 

So passionate for an utter purity 

Beyond the limit of their bond, are 
these. 

For Arthur bound them not to single- 
ness. 

Brave hearts and clean! and yet — 
God guide them — young." 

Then Mark was half in heart to 

hurl his cup 
Straight at the speaker, but forbore : 

he rose 
To leave the hall, and, Vivien follow- 
ing him, 
Turn'd to her : " Here are snakes 

within the grass ; 
And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye 

fear 
The monkish manhood, and the mask 

of pure 
Worn by this court, can stir them till 

they sting." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling scorn- 
fully, 
" Why fear ? because that f oster'd at 

th]! court 
I savor of thy — virtues V fear them ? 

no. 
As Love, if Love be perfect, casts out 

fear. 
So Hate, if Hate be perfect, casts out 

fear. 
My father died in battle against the 

King, 
My mother on his corpse in open field ; 
She bore me there, for born from 

death was I 
Among the dead and sown upon the 

wind — 
And then on thee! and shown the 

truth betimes. 
That old true filth, and bottom of the 

well, 
Where Truth is hidden. Gracious 

lessons thine 
And maxims of the mud ! ' This 

Arthur pure ! 
Great Nature thro' the flesh herself 

hath made 
Gives him the lie ! There is no being 

pure. 
My cherub ; saith not Holy Writ the 

same 1 ' — 
If I were Arthur, I would have thy 

blood. 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



235 




"At Merlin's fe ft the irili/ Vivien lay. 



Thy blessing, stainless King! I bring 
thee back, 

When I have ferreted out their bur- 
rowings. 

The hearts of all this Order in mine 
hand — 

Ay — so that fate and craft and folly 
close, 

Perchance, one curl of Arthur's 
golden beard. 

To me this narrow grizzled fork of 
thine 



Is cleaner-fashion'd — Well, I loved 

thee first. 
That warps the wit." 

Loud laugh'd the graceless Mark. 
But Vivien into Camelot stealing, 

lodged 
Low in the city, and on a festal day 
When Guinevere was crossing the 

great hall 
Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, 

and wail'd. 



230 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



" Why kneel ye there ? Wliat evil 

have ye wrought ? 
Rise ! " and the damsel bid(^en rise 

arose 
And stood with folded hands and 

downward eyes 
Of glancing corner, and all meekly 

said, 
" None wrought, but suffer'd much, 

an orphan maid! 
My father died in battle for thy King, 
My mother on his corpse — in open 

field, 
The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyon- 

esse — 
Poor wretch — no friend ! — and now 

by Mark the King 
For that small charm of feature mine, 

pursued — 
If any such be mine — I fly to thee. 
Save, save me thou — Woman of 

women — thine 
The wreath of beauty, thine the crown 

of power, 
Be tliine the balm of pity, O Heaven's 

own white 
Earth-angel, stainless bride of stain- 
less King — 
Help, for he follows ! take me to thy- 
self ! 

yield me shelter for mine innocency 
Among thy maidens ! " 

Here her slow sweet eyes 
Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, 

rose 
Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen 

who stood 
All glittering like May sunshine on 

May leaves 
In green and gold, and plumed with 

green replied, 
" Peace, child ! of overpraise and over- 
blame 
We choose the last. Our noble 

Arthur, him 
Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear 

and know. 
Nay — we believe all evil of thy 

Mark — 
Well, we shall test thee farther ; but 

this hour 
We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot. 
He hath given us a fair falcon which 

lie train'd ; 
We go to prove it. Bide ye here the 

while." 

She past ; and Vivien murmur'd 
after " Go ! 

1 bide the while." Then thro' the 

portal-arch 
Peering askance, and muttering 

broken-wise, 
As one that labors with an evil dream, 
Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to 

liorse. 



"Is that the Lancelot? goodly — 

ay, but gaunt : 
Courteous — amends for gauntness — 

takes her hand — 
That glance of theirs, but for the 

street, had been 
A clinging kiss — how hand lingers 

in hand ! 
Let go at last! — they ride away — 

to hawk 
For waterfowl. Royaller game is 

mine. 
For such a supersensual sensual bond 
As that gray cricket chirpt of at our 

hearth — 
Touch flax with flame — a glance will 

serve — the liars ! 
Ah little rat that borest in the dyke 
Thy hole by night to let the boundless 

deep 
Down upon far-off cities while they 

dance — 
Or dream — of thee they dream'd not 

— nor of me 

These — ay, but each of either : ride, 

and dream 
The mortal dream that never yet was 

mine — 
Ride, ride and dream until ye wake — 

to me ! 
Then, narrow court and lubber King, 

farewell ! 
For Lancelot will be gracious to the 

rat, 
And our wise Queen, if knowing that 

I know. 
Will hate, loathe, fear — but honor 

me the more." 

Yet while they rode together down 

the plain. 
Their talk was all of training, terms 

of art, 
Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure. 
" She is too noble " he said " to check 

at pies. 
Nor will she rake : there is no base- 
ness in her." 
Here when the Queen demanded as by 

chance 
"Know ye the stranger woman?" 

" Let her be," 
Said Lancelot and unhooded casting 

off 
The goodly falcon free ; she tower'd ; 

her bells. 
Tone under tone, shrill'd; and they 

lifted up 
Tlieir eager faces, wondering at the 

strength. 
Boldness and royal knighthood of the 

bird 
Who pounced her quarry and slew it. 

Many a time 
As once — of old — among the flowers 

— thev rode. 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



Ill 



But Vivien half-forgotten of the 

Queen 
Among her damsels broidering sat, 

heard, watoh'd 
And whisper'd : thro' the peaceful 

court she crejjt 
And whisper'd : then as Arthur in the 

highest 
Leaven'd the world, so Vivien in the 

lowest, 
Arriving at a time of golden rest. 
And sowing one ill hint from ear to 

ear. 
While all the heathen lay at Arthur's 

• feet, 
And no quest came, hut all was joust 

and play, 
Leaven'd his hall. They heard and 

let her be. 

Thereafter as an enemy that has left 
Death in the living waters, and with- 
drawn, 
The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's 
court. 

She hated all the knights, and heard 

in thought 
Their lavish comment when her name 

was named. 
For once, when Arthur walking all 

alone, 
Vext at a rumor issued from herself 
Of some corruption crept among his 

knights, 
Had met her, Vivien, being greeted 

fair. 
Would fain have wrought upon his 

cloudy mood 
With reverent eyes mock-loyal, 

shaken voice, 
And fiutter'd adoration, and at last 
With dark sweet hints of some who 

prized him more 
Than who should prize him most ; at 

which the King 
Had gazed upon her blankly and gone 

by: 
But one had watoh'd, and had not held 

his peace : 
It made the laughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien should attempt the 

blameless King. 
And after that, she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all 

those times, 
Merlin, who knew the range of all 

their arts. 
Had built the King his havens, ships, 

and halls, 
Was also Bard, and knew the starry 

heavens ; 
The people call'd him Wizard ; whom 

at first 
Siie play'd about with slight and 

sprightly talk, 



And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom'd 

points 
Of slander, glancing here and grazing 

there ; 
And yielding to his kindlier moods, 

the Seer 
Would watcii her at her petulance, 

and play, 
Ev'n when they seem'd unloveable, 

and laugh 
As those that watch a kitten; thus he 

grew 
Tolerant of wiiat he half disdain'd, 

and she, 
Perceiving that she was but half dis- 
dain'd. 
Began to break lier sports with graver 

fits, 
Turn red or pale, would often when 

they met 
Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 
With such a fixt devotion, that the old 

man, 
Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at 

times 
Would flatter his own wish in age for 

love. 
And half believe her true : for thus at 

times 
He waver'd ; but that other clung to 

him, 
Fixt in her will, and so the seasons 

went. 

Then fell on Merlin a great melan- 
choly ; 
He walk'd with dreams and darkness, 

and he found 
A doom that ever poised itself to fall. 
An ever-moaning battle in tlie mist. 
World-war of dying flesh against the 

life, 
Deatli in all life and lying in all love. 
The meanest having i>ovver upon the 

highest, 
And the high purpose broken by the 
worm. 

So leaving Arthur's court he gain'd 

tlie beach ; 
There found a little boat, and stept 

into it ; 
And Vivien follow'.d, but he mark'd 

her not. 
She took tiie helm and he the sail ; 

the boat 
Drave with a sudden wind across the 

deeps, 
And toucliing Breton sands, they dis- 

embark'd. 
And then she follow'd Merlin all the 

way, 
Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. 
For Merlin once had told her of a 

charm. 
The which if any wrought on anyone 



238 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



With woven paces and with waving 

arms, 
The man so wrought on ever seem'd 

to lie 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow 

tower, 
From which was no escape for ever- 
more ; 
And none could find that man for 

evermore, 
Nor could he see but him who wrought 

the charm 
Coming and going, and he lay as dead 
And lost to life and use and name 

and fame. 
And Vivien ever sought to work the 

charm 
Upon the great Enchanter of the 

Time, 
As fancying that her glory would be 

great 
According to his greatness whom she 

quench'd. 



There lay she all her length and 

kiss'd his feet. 
As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair ; a 

robe 
Of samite without price, that more 

exprest 
Than hid her, clung about her lissome 

limbs. 
In color like the satin-shining palm 
On sallows in the windy gleams of 

March : 
And while she kiss'd them, crying, 

" Trample me. 
Dear feet, that I have foUow'd thro' 

the world, 
And I will pay you worship ; tread 

me down 
And I will kiss you for it ; " he was 

mute : - 
So dark a forethought roU'd about his 

brain, 
As on a dull day in an Ocean cave 
The blind wave feeling round his long 

sea-hall 
In silence : wherefore, when she lifted 

up 
A face of sad appeal, and spake and 

said, 
" O Merlin, do ye love me ? " and 

again, 
" O Merlin, do ye love me ? " and once 

more, 
" Great Master, do ye love me ? " he 

was mute. 
And lissome Vivien, holding by his 

heel. 
Writhed toward him, slided up his 

knee and sat. 
Behind his ankle twined her hollow 

feet 



Together, curved an arm about his 

neck, 
Clung like a snake ; and letting her 

left hand 
Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a 

leaf. 
Made with her right a comb of pearl 

to part 
The lists of such a beard as youth gone 

out 
Had left in ashes : then he spoke and 

said. 
Not looking at her, " Who are wise in 

love 
Love most, say least," and Vivien 

answer'd quick, 
" I saw the little elf-god eyeless once 
In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot : 
But neither eyes nor tongue — () 

stupid child ! 
Yet you are wise who say it ; let me 

think 
Silence is wisdom : I am silent then, 
And ask no kiss ;" then adding all at 

once, 
" And lo, I clothe myself with wis- 
dom," drew 
The vast and shaggy mantle of his 

beard 
Across her neck and bosom to her 

knee, 
And call'd herself a gilded simimcr fly 
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's 

web, 
Who meant to eat her up in that wild 

wood 
Without one word. So Vivien call'd 

herself. 
But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star 
Veil'd in gray vapor ; till he sadly 

smiled : 
" To what request for what strange 

boon," he said, 
" Are these your pretty tricks and 

fooleries, 
Vivien, the preamble ? yet my 

thanks, 
For these have broken up my melan- 
choly." 



And Vivien answer'd smiling sau- 

tily, 
" What, O my Master, have ye found 

your voice ? 
I bid the stranger welcome. Thanks 

at last ! 
But yesterday you never open'd lip, 
Except indeed to drink : no cup had 

we: 
In mine own lady palms I cuU'd the 

spring 
That gather'd trickling dropwise from 

the cleft. 
And made a pretty cup of both my 

hands 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



239 



And offer'd j^ou it kneeling : then you 

drank 
And knew no more, nor gave me one 

poor word ; 
O no more thanks than might a goat 

have given 
With no more sign of reverence than 

a beard. 
And when we halted at that other 

well, 
And I was faint to swooning, and you 

lay 
Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of 

those 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did 

you know 
That Vivien bathed your feet before 

her own 1 
And yet no thanks : and all thro' this 

wild wood 
And all this morning when I fondled 

you: 
Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not 

so strange — 
How had I- wrong'd you ? surely ye 

are wise, 
But such a silence is more wise than 

kind." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 

and said : 
" O did ye never lie upon the shore. 
And watch the curl'd white of the 

coming wave 
Glass'd in the slippery sand before it 

breaks ? 
Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleasur- 
able, 
Dark in the glass of some presageful 

mood, 
Had. I for three days seen, ready to 

fall. 
And then I rose and fled from Arthur's 

court 
To break the mood. You follow'd me 

unask'd ; 
And when I look'd, and saw you fol- 
lowing still, 
Mymind involved yourself the nearest 

thing 
In that mind-mist : for shall I tell you 

truth ? 
You seem'd that wave about to break 

upon me 
And sweep me from my hold upon the 

world. 
My use and name and fame. Your 

pardon, child. 
Your pretty sports have brighten'd all 

again. 
And ask your boon, for boon J owe 

you thrice. 
Once for wrong done you by confusion, 

ne.xt 
For thanks it seems till now neglected, 

last 



For these your dainty gambols : 

wherefore ask; 
And take this boon so strange and not 

so strange." 



And Vivien answer'd smiling mourn- 
fully : 
" not so strange as my long asking 

it. 
Not yet so strange as yaw yourself are 

strange. 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood 

of yours. 
I ever fear'd ye were not wholly 

mine ; 
And see, yourself have own'd ye did 

me wrong. 
The people call you prophet: let it 

be: 
But not of those that can expound 

themselves. 
Take Vivien for expounder ; she will 

call 
That three-days-long presageful gloom 

of yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful 

mood 
That makes you seem less noble than 

yourself, 
Whenever I have ask'd this very 

boon. 
Now ask'd again : for see you not, 

dear love. 
That such a mood as that, which 

lately gloom'd 
Your fancy when ye saw me follow- 
ing you. 
Must make me fear still more you are 

not mine. 
Must make me yearn still more to 

prove you mine. 
And make me wish still more to learn 

this charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
As proof of trust. Merlin, teach it 

me. 
The charm so taught will charm us 

both to rest. 
For, grant me some slight power upon 

your fate, 
I, feeling that you felt me worthy 

trust, 
Should rest and let you rest, knowing 

you mine. 
And therefore be as great as ye are 

named, 
Not muffled round with selfish reti- 
cence. 
How hard you look and how deny- 

ingly ! 
0, if j'ou think this wickedness in me, 
That I should prove it on you una- 
wares, 
That makes me passing wrathful ; then 

our bond 



240 



MERLIN AND I'lVIIiN. 



Had best be loosed for ever : but 

think or not, 
By Heaven tliat hears I tell you the 

clean truth, 
As clean as blood of babes, as white 

as milk ; 

Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 
If these unwitty wandering wits of 

mine, 
Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a 

dream, 
Have tript on such conjectural treach- 
ery — 
May this hard earth cleave to the 

Nadir hell 
Down, down, and close again, and nip 

me flat. 
If I be such a traitress. Yield my 

boon, 
Till which I scarce can yield you all 

I am ; 
And grant my re-reiterated wish, 
The great proof of your love : because 

I think, 
However wise, ye hardly know me 

yet." 

And Merlin loosed his hand from 

hers and said, 
" I never was less wise, however wise. 
Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of 

trust, 
Than when I told you first of such a 

charm. 
Yea, if j'e talk of trust I tell you this, 
Too much I trusted when I told you 

that. 
And stirr'd this vice in you which 

ruin'd man 
Thro' woman the first hour ; for 

howsoe'er 
In children a great curiousness be 

well, 
Who have to learn themselves and all 

the world. 
In you, that are no child, for still I 

find 
Your face is practised when I spell 

tlie lines, 

1 call it, — well, I will not call it vice : 
But since you name yourself the 

summer fly, 
I well could wish a cobweb for the 

gnat, 
That settles, beaten back, and beaten 

back 
Settles, till one could yield for weari- 
ness: 
But since I will not yield to give you 

power 
Upon my life and use and name and 

fame, 
Why will ye never ask some other 

boon ? 
Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too 

much." 



And Vivien, like the tenderest- 

hearted maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile, 
Made answer, either eyelid wet with 

tears : 
"Nay, Master, be not wrathful with 

your maid ; 
Caress her : let her feel herself for- 
given 
Who feels no heart to ask another 

boon. 
I think ye hardly know the tender 

rhyme 
Of ' trust me not at all or all in all.' 
I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it 

once. 
And it shall answer for me. Listen 

to it. 

' In Love, if Love be Love, if Love 

be ours, 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal 

powers : 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in 

all. 

It is the little rift within the lute, 
That by and by will make the music 

mute. 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

' The little rift within the lover's 

lute 
(.)r little i^itted speck in garner'd fruit. 
That rotting inward slowly moulders 

all. 

' It is not worth the keeping : let it 

go : 
But shall it? answer, darling, answer, 

no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all.' 

Master, do ye love my tender 
rhyme ? " 

And Merlin look'd and half believed 

her true. 
So tender was her voice, so fair her 

face, 
So sweetly gleam'd her ej^es behind 

her tears 
Like sunlight on the plain behind a 

shower : 
And yet he answer'd half indignantly : 

" Far other was the song that once 

I heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where 

we sit : 
For here we met, some ten or twelve 

of us. 
To chase a creature that was current 

then 
In these wild woods, the hart with 

golden horns. 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



241 



It was the time when first the ques- 
tion rose 
About the founding of a Table Round, 
That was to be, for love of God and 

men 
And noble deeds, the flower of all the 

world. 
And each incited each to noble deeds. 
And while we waited, one, the young- 
est of us, 
AVe could not keep him silent, out he 

flash'd. 
And into such a song, such fire for 

fame. 
Such trumpet-blowings in it. coming 

down 
To such a stern and iron-clasliing 

close, 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl 

together. 
And should have done it; but the 

beauteous beast 
Scared by the noise upstarted at our 

feet. 
And like a silver shadow slipt away 
Thro' the dim land ; and all day long 

we rode 
Thro' the dim land against a rushing 

wind, 
That glorious roundel echoing in our 

ears, 
And chased the flashes of his golden 

horns 
Until tliey vanish 'd by the faii-y 

well 
That laughs at iron — as our warriors 

did— 
Where children cast their pins and 

nails, and cry, 
' Laugh, little well ! ' but touch it with 

a sword. 
It buzzes fiercely round the point ; and 

there 
We lost him : sucli a noble song was 

that. 
But, Vivien, when you sang me that 

sweet rhyme, 
I felt as tho' you knew this cursed 

charm. 
Were proving it on me, and that 1 

lay 
And felt them slowly ebbing, name 

and fame " 

And Vivien answer'd smiling 
mournfully : 

" O mine have ebb'd away for ever- 
more. 

And all thro' following you to this 
wild wood. 

Because I saw you sad, to comfort 
you. 

Lo now, what hearts have men ! tliey 
never mount 

As liigh as woman in her selfless 
mood. 



And touching fame, howe'er yc scnrn 

my song. 
Take one verse more — the lady 

speaks it — this : 

" ' My name, once mine, now thine, 

is closelier mine. 
For fame, could fame be mine, that 

fame were thine. 
And shame, could shame be thine, 

that shame were mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all.' 

" Says she not well ? and there is 

more — this rhyme 
Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the 

Queen, 
That burst in dancing, and the pearls 

were spilt ; 
Some lost, some stolen, some as relics 

kept. 
But nevermore the same two sister 

pearls 
Ran down the silken thread to kiss 

each other 
On her white neck — so is it with this 

rhyme : 
It lives dispersedly in many hands, 
And every minstrel sings it differ- 
ently ; 
Yet is there one true line, the pearl of 

pearls : 
' Man dreams of Fame while woman 

wakes to love.' 
Yea ! Love, tho' Love were of the 

grossest, carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest; but 

Fame, 
The Fame that follows death is noth- 
ing to us ; 
And what is Fame in life but half- 

disfame, 
And counterchanged with darkness ? 

ye yourself 
Know well that Envy calls you Devil's 

son. 
And since ye seem the Master of all 

Art, 
They fain would make you Master of 

all vice." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 

and said, 
" I once was looking for a magic weed. 
And found a fair j^oung squire who 

sat alone. 
Had carved himself a knightly shield 

of wood. 
And then was painting on it fancied 

arms. 
Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun 
In de.xter chief ; the scroll ' I follow 

fame.' 
And speaking not, but leaning over 

him, 



242 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 




'And speaking not, but leaning over him, 
I took his brush and blotted out the bird." 



I took liis brush and blotted out the 

bird, 
And made a Gardener putting in 

graff, 
With this for motto, ' Rather use than 

fame.' 
You sliould have seen him blush ; but 

afterwards 
He made a stalwart knight. Vivien, 
For you, methinks you think you love 

me well ; 
Por me, I love you somewhat; rest : 

and Love 



Should liave some rest and pleasure 

in himself, 
Not ever be too curious for a boon, 
Too prurient for a proof against tiie 

grain 
Of him ye say ye love : but Fame with 

men, 
Being but ampler means to serve 

mankind, 
Should have small rest or pleasure in 

herself, 
But work as vassal to the larger 

love, 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



243 



That dwarfs the petty love of one to 

one. 
Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame 

again 
Increasing gave me use. Lo, there 

my boon ! 
What other % for men sought to prove 

me vile, 
Because I fain had given them greater 

wits : 
And then did Envy call me Devil's 

son : 
The sick weak beast seeking to help 

herself 
By striking at her better miss'd, and 

brought 
Her own claw back, and wounded lier 

own heart. 
Sweet were the days when I was all 

unknown, 
But when my name was lifted up, tlie 

storm 
Brake on the mountain and I cared 

not for it. 
Right well know I that Fame is half- 

disfame, 
Yet needs must work my work. That 

other fame, 
To one at least, who hath not children, 

vague. 
The cackle of the unborn about the 

grave, 
I cared not for it : a single misty 

star. 
Which is the second in a line of stars 
That seem a sword beneath a belt of 

three, 
I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 
Of some vast charm concluded in tliat 

star 
To make fame nothing. Wherefore, 

if I fear, 
Giving you power upon me thro' this 

charm. 
That you might play me falsely, liav- 

ing power, • 
However well ye think ye love me now 
{As sons of kings loving in pupilage 
Have turn'd to tyrants when they 

came to power) 
I rather dread the loss of use than 

fame; 
If you — and not so much from 

wickedness. 
As some wild turn of anger, or a mood 
Of overstrain'd affection, it may be. 
To keep me all to your own self, — or 

else 
A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy,— 
Should try tliis charm on whom ye sa^' 

ye love." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling as in 
wrath : 
" Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. 
Good! 



Well, hide it, l)ide it ; I shall find it 

out; 
And being found take heed of Vivien. 
A woman and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger 

born 
Of your misfaith ; and your fine 

epithet 
Is accurate too, for tiiis full love of 

mine 
Without the full heart back may 

merit well 
Your term of overstrain'd. So used 

as I, 
My daily wonder is, I love at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, O why 

not? 

to what end, except a jealous one. 
And one to make me jealous if Hove, 
Was this fair charm invented by your- 
self? 

1 well believe that all about this world 
Ye cage a buxom captive here and 

there. 

Closed in the four walls of a hollow 
tower 

From which is no escape for ever- 
more." 

Then the great Master merrily an- 
swer'd her : 

" Full many a love in loving youtli 
was mine ; 

I needed then no charm to keep them 
mine 

But youth and love ; and that full 
heart of yours 

Whereof ye prattle, may now assure 
you mine ; 

So live uncharm'd. For tliose who 
wrought it first. 

The wrist is parted from the hand 
that waved, 

The feet unmortised from their ankle- 
bones 

Who paced it, ages back : but will ye 
hear 

The legend as in guerdon for your 
rhyme ? 

"There lived a king in the most 

Eastern East, 
Less old than I, yet older, for my 

blood 
Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. 
A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port, 
Whose bark had jilunder'd twenty 

nameless isles ; 
And passing one, at the high peep of 

dawn, 
He saw two cities in a thousand boats 
All fighting for a woman on tlie sea. 
And pushing his black craft among 

them all, 
He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought 

her oil'. 



244 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 




■And pushing his black craft among them all, 
He lighthi scattir'd theirs and hrouglit her off.' 



With loss of half his people arrow- 
slain ; 

A maid so smootii, so white, so won- 
derful, 

They said a light came from her when 
she moved : 

And since the pirate would not yield 
her up, 

The King impaled him for his 
piracy ; 

Then made her -Queen : but those isle- 
nurtured eyes 

Waged such unwilling tho' successful 
war 



On all the youtli,they sicken'd ; coun- 
cils thinn'd, 
And armies waned, for magnet-like 

she drew 
The rustiest iron of old fighters' 

hearts ; 
And beasts themselves would worship ; 

camels knelt 
Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain 

back 
That carry kings in castles, bow'd 

black knees 
Of homage, ringing with their serpent 

hands. 



MERLIN AND I'lVIEN. 



24?; 



To make her smile, her golden ankle- 
bells. 
What wonder, being jealous, tluit he 

sent 
His horns of proclamation out thro' 

all 
The hundred under-kingdoms tliat he 

sway'd 
To find a wizard who might teach the 

King 
Some charm, which being wrought 

upon the Queen 
Might keep her all his own : to such a 

one 
He promised more than ever king has 

given, 
A league of mountain full of golden 

mines, 
A province with a hundred miles of 

coast, 
A palace and a princess, all for him : 
But on all those who tried and fail'd, 

the King 
Pronounced a dismal sentence, mean- 
ing by it 
To keep the list low and pretenders 

back, 
Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 
Their heads should moulder on the 

city gates. 
And many tried and fail'd, because 

the charm 
Of nature in her overbore their own : 
And many a wizard brow bleach'd on 

the walls : 
And many weeks a troop of carrion 

crows 
Hung like a cloud above the gateway 

towers." 

And Vivien breaking in upon liini, 

said : 
" I sit and gather honey ; yet, me- 

thinks, 
Thy tonjfue has tript a little : ask thy- 
self. 
The lady never made unwilling war 
With those fine eyes : she had her 

pleasure in it. 
And made her good man jealous with 

good cause. 
And lived there neither dame nor 

damsel then 
Wroth at a lover's loss? were all as 

tame, 
1 mean, as noble, as their Queen was 

fair ? 
Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, 
Or pinch a murderous dust into her 

drink, 
Or make her paler witli a poison'd 

rose ? 
Well, those were not our days : but 

did they find 
A wizard ? Tell me, was he like to 

thee ■? " 



Slie ceased, and made lier lithe arm 

round his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let 

her eyes 
Speak for her, glowing on him, like a 

bride's 
On her new lord, her own, the first of 

men. 

He answer'd laughing, " Nay, not 

like to me. 
At last they found — his foragers for 

charms — 
A little glassy-headed hairless man, 
Who lived alone in a great wild on 

grass ; 
Read but one book, and ever reading 

grew 
So»grated down and filed away with 

thought, 
So lean his eyes were monstrous ; 

while the skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs 

and spine. 
And since he kept his mind on one 

sole aim. 
Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor tasted 

flesh, 
Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the 

wall 
That sunders ghosts and shadow-cast- 
ing men 
Became a crystal, and he saw them 

thro' it, 
And heard their voices talk behind 

the wall. 
And learnt their elemental secrets, 

powers 
And forces ; often o'er the sun's briglit 

eye 
Drew the vast eyelid of an inky 

cloud, 
And lash'd it at the base with slanting 

storm ; 
Or in the noon of mist and driving 

rain, 
When the lake whiten'd and the pine- 
wood roar'd, 
And the cairn'd mountain was a 

shadow, sunn'd 
The world to peace again: here was 

the man. 
And so by force they dragg'd him to 

the King. 
And then he taught the King to 

charm the Queen 
In such-wise, that no man could see 

her more, 
Nor saw she save the King, who 

wrought the charm, 
Coming and going, and she lay as 

dead, 
And lost all use of life : but when the 

King 
Made proffer of the league of golden 

mines, 



'246 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



The province with a hundred miles of 

coast, 
The palace and the princess, that old 

man 
Went back to his old wild, and lived 

on grass. 
And vanish'd, and his book came 

down to me." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling sau- 
cily : 
" Ye have the book : the charm is 

written in it : 
Good : take my counsel . let me know 

it at once : 
For keep it like a puzzle chest in 

chest, 
With each chest lock'd and padlock'd 

tiiirty-fold, • 

And whelm all this beneath as vast a 

mound 
As after furious battle turfs the 

slain 
On some wild down above the windy 

deep, 
I yet should strike upon a sudden 

means 
To dig, pick, open, find and read the 

charm : 
Then, if I tried it, who should blame 

me then 7 " 

And smiling as a master smiles at 
one 

That is not of his school, nor any 
school 

But that where blind and naked 
Ignorance 

Delivers brawling judgments, una- 
shamed. 

On all things all day long, he answer'd 
her: 

"Thou read the book, my pretty 

Vivien ! 
O ay, it is but twenty pages long, 
But every page having an ample 

marge, 
And every marge enclosing in the 

midst 
A square of text that looks a little 

blot. 
The text no larger than the limbs of 

fleas ; 
And every square of text an awful 

charm. 
Writ in a language that has long gone 

by. 
So long, that mountains have arisen 

since 
With cities on their flanks — thou read 

the book ! 
And every margin scribbled, crost, 

and cramm'd 
With comment, densest condensation, 

hard 



To mind and eye ; but the long sleep- 
less nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to 

me. 
And none can read the text, not even 

I; 
And none can read the comment but 

myseif ; 
And in the comment did I find the 

charm. 
O, the results are simple; a mere 

child 
Might use it to the harm of any one. 
And never could undo it : ask no 

more : 
For tho' you should not prove it upon 

me. 
But keep that oath ye sware, ye 

might, perchance, 
Assay it on some one of the Table 

Round, 
And all because ye dream they babble 

of you." 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, 

said : 
" What dare the full-fed liars say of 

me? 
They ride abroad redressing human 

wrongs ! 
They sit with knife in meat and wine 

in horn! 
Theji bound to holy vows of chastity ! 
Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. 
But 3'ou are man, you well can under- 
stand 
The shame that cannot be explain'd 

for shame. 
Not one of all the drove should touch 

me : swine ! " 

Then answer'd Merlin careless of 

her words : 
" You breathe but accusation vast and 

vague, 
Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. 

If ye know. 
Set up the charge ye know, to stand 

or fall ! " 

And Vivien answer'd frowning 

wrathf ully : 
" ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, 

him 
Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er 

his wife 
And two fair babes, and went to dis- 
tant lands ; 
Was one year gone, and on returning 

found 
Not two but three ? there lay the 

reckling, one 
But one hour old! What said the 

happy sire ? 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



247 



A seven-months' babe had been a 

truer gift. 
Those twelve sweet moons confused 

his fatherhood." 

Then answer'd Merlin, "Nay, I 

know the tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outland 

dame : 
Some cause had kept him sunder'd 

from his wife : 
One child they had : it lived with her : 

she died : 
His kinsman travelling on his own 

atfair 
Was charged by Valence to bring 

home the child. 
He brought, not found it therefore : 

take the truth." 

" O ay," said Vivien, " overtrue a 

tale. 
What say ye then to sweet Sir Sag- 

ramore, 
That ardent man "? ' to pluck the 

flower in season,' 
So says the song, ' I trow it is no 

treason.' 

Master, shall we call him overquick 
To crop his own sweet rose before the 

hour % " 

And Merlin answer'd, " Overquick 

art thou 
To catch a loathly plume fall'n from 

the wing 
Of that foul bird of rapine whose 

whole prey 
Is man's good name : he never wrong'd 

his bride. 

1 know the tale. An angry gust of 

wind 
Puff'd out his torch among the myriad- 

room'd 
And many-corridor'd complexities 
Of Arthur's palace : then he found a 

door, 
And darkling felt the sculptured 

ornament 
That wreathen round it made it seem 

his own ; 
And wearied out made for the couch 

and slept, 
A stainless man beside a stainless 

maid ; 
And either slept, nor knew of other 

there ; 
Till the high dawn piercing the royal 

rose 
In Arthur's casement glimmer'd 

chastely down, 
Blushing upon them blushing, and at 

once 
He rose without a word and parted 

from her : 



But when the thing was blazed about 

the court. 
The brute world howling forced them 

into bonds. 
And as it chanced they are happy, 

being pure." 

" O ay/' said Vivien, " that were 

likely too. 
AVhat say yethen to fair Sir Percivale 
And of the horrid foulness that he 

wrought, 
The saintly youth, the spotless lamb 

of Christ, 
Or some black wether of St. Satan's 

fold. 
What, in the precincts of the chapel- 
yard. 
Among the knightly brasses of the 

graves. 
And by the cold Hie Jacets of the 

dead ! " 

And Merlin answer'd careless of her 

charge, 
" A sober man is Percivale and pure ; 
But once in life was fluster'd with new 

wine. 
Then paced for coolness in the chapel- 
yard ; 
Where one of Satan's shepherdesses 

caught 
And meant to stamp him with her 

master's mark ; 
And that he sinn'd is not believable; 
For, look upon his face ! — but if he 

sinn'd. 
The sin that practice burns into the 

blood, 
And not the one dark hour which 

brings remorse. 
Will brand us, after, of whose fold we 

be: 
Or else were he, the holy king, whose 

hymns 
Are chanted in the minster, worse 

than all. 
But is your spleen froth'd out, or have 

ye more ? " 

And Vivien answer'd frowning yet 

in wrath : 
Traitor what say ye to Sir Lancelot, 

friend 
" ay ; or true ? with that commerce 

the Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child, 
Or whisper'd in the corner ? do ye 

know it? " 

To which he answer'd sadly, " Yea, 

I know it. 
Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at 

first, 
To fetch her, and she watch'd him 

from her walls. 



248 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



A rumor runs, slie took him for the 
King, 

So fixt her fancy on him : let them be. 

But have ye no one word of loyal 
jiraise 

For Arthur, blameless King and stain- 
less man ? " 

She answer'd with a low and clmck- 

ling laugh : 
" Man ! is he man at all, who knows 

and winks ? 
Sees what his fair bride is and does, 

and winks ? 
By which the good King means to 

blind himself, 
And blinds liimself and all the Table 

Round 
To all the foulness that they work. 

Myself 
Could call him (were it not for 

womanliood) 
Tlie pretty, popular name such man- 
hood earns. 
Could call him the main cause of all 

their crime ; 
Yea, were he not crown'd King, 

coward, and fool." 

Then Merlin to liis own heart, 
loathing, said : 

" O true and tender ! O my liege and 
King! 

O selfless man and stainless gentle- 
man, 

Who wouldst against thine own eye- 
witness fain 

Have all men true and leal, all women 
pure; 

How, in the mouths of base inter- 
preters. 

From over-fineness not intelligible 

To things v>ith every sense as false 
and foul 

As the poach'd filth that floods the 
middle street. 

Is thy white blamelessness accounted 
blame ! " 

But Vivien, deeming Merlin over- 
borne 

By instance, recommenced, and let 
her tongue 

Rage like a fire among the noblest 
names. 

Polluting, and imputing her wliole 
self, 

Defaming and defacing, till she left 

Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad 
clean. 

Her words had issue other than she 
will'd. 
He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, 
and made 



A snowy penthouse for his hollow 

eyes, 
And mutter'd in himself, " Tell her the 

charm ! 
So, if she had it, would she rail 

on me 
To snare the next, and if she have it 

not 
So will she rail. What did the wan- 
ton say ? 
' Not mount as high ; ' Me scarce can 

sink as low : 
For men at most differ as Heaven and 

earth. 
But women, worst and best, as Heaven 

and Hell. 
I know the Table Round, my friends 

of old ; 
All brave, and many generous, and 

some cliaste. 
She cloaks the scar of some repulse 

with lies ; 
I well believe she tempted them and 

fail'd. 
Being so bitter : for fine plots may 

fail, 
Tho' harlots paint their talk as well 

as face 
With colors of the heart that are not 

theirs. 
I will not let her know : nine tithes of 

times 
Face-flatterer and backbiter are the 

same. 
And they, sweet soul, that most im- 
pute a crime 
Are pronest to it, and impute them- 
selves. 
Wanting the mental range ; or low 

desire 
Not to feel lowest makes them level 

all; 
Yea, they would pare the moimtain 

to the plain. 
To leave an equal baseness ; and in 

this 
Are harlots like the crowd, that if 

they find 
Some stain or blemish in a name of 

note, 
Not grieving that their greatest are so 

small. 
Inflate themselves with some insane 

delight. 
And judge all nature from her feet of 

clay. 
Without the will to lift their eyes, ami 

see 
Her godlike head crown'd with spir- 
itual fire. 
And touching other worlds. I am 

wear}^ of her." 

He spoke in words part heard, in 
whispers part. 
Half-suffocated in the hoary fell 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



249 



And raany-wiiiter'd fleece of throat 

and chin. 
But Vivien, gathering somewhat of 

his mood, 
And hearing " harlot " mutter'd twice 

or thrice. 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and 

stood 
Stiff as a viper frozen ; loathsome 

sight. 
How from the rosy lips of life and love, 
Flash'd the bare-grinning skeleton of 

death ! 
White was her cheek ; sharp breaths 

of anger puff'd 
Her fairy nostril out ; her hand half- 

clench'd 
Went faltering sideways downward to 

her belt. 
And feeling; had she found a dagger 

there 
(For in a wink the false love turns 

to hate) 
She would have stabb'd him ; but she 

found it not : 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she 

took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way, broken 

with sobs : 

" crueller th.an was ever told in 
tale, 
Or sung in song ! O vainly lavish'd 
love ! 

cruel, there was nothing wild or 

strange, 
Or seeming shaineful — for what 

shame in love. 
So love be true, and not as yours is — 

nothing 
Poor Vivien had not done to win his 

trust 
Who call'd her what he call'd her — 

all her crime, 
All — all — the wish to prove him 

wholly hers." 

She mused a little, and then clapt 
her hands 

Together with a wailing shriek, and 
said: 

" Stabb'd through the heart's affec- 
tions to the heart! 

Seethed like the kid in its own mother's 
milk! 

Kill'd with a word worse than a life 
of blows ! 

1 thought that he was gentle, being 

great : 

God, that I had loved a smaller man ! 

1 should have found in him a greater 

heart. 
O, I, that flattering my true passion, 
saw 



The knights, the court, the King, dark 

in your light. 
Who loved to make men darker than 

they are, 
Because of that high pleasure which 

I had 
To seat you sole upon my pedestal 
Of worship — I am answer'd, and 

henceforth 
The course of life that seem'd so 

flowery to me 
With you for guide and master, only 

Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken 

short. 
And ending in a ruin — nothing left. 
But into some low cave to crawl, and 

there. 
If the wolf spare me, weep my life 

away, 
Kill'd with inutterable unkindliness." 

She paused, she turn'd away, she 

hung her head. 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, 

the braid 
Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept 

afresh. 
And the dark wood grew darker 

toward the storm 
In silence, while his anger slowly 

died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, and half believed 

her true : 
Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
" Come from the storm," and having 

no reply. 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and 

the face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or 

shame ; 
Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest- 

touching terms. 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in 

vain. 
At last she let herself be conquer'd by 

him, 
And as the cageling newly flown re- 
turns. 
The seeming-injured, simple-hearted 

thing 
Came to her old perch back, and set- 
tled there. 
There while she sat, half-falling from 

his knees. 
Half-nestled at his heart, and since he 

saw 
The slow tear creep from her closed 

ej'^e-lid yet, 
About her, more in kindness than in 

love. 
The gentle wizard cast a shielding 

arm. 
But she dislink'd herself at once and 

rose, 



250 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



Her arms upon her breast across, and 

stood, 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply 

wrong'd, 
Upright and flush'd before him : then 

she said : 

" There must be now no passages of 

love 
Betwixt us twain henceforward ever- 
more ; 
Since, if I be what I am grossly call'd. 
What should be granted which your 

own gross heart 
Would reckon worth the taking ? I 

will go. 
In truth, but one thing now — better 

have died 
Thrice than have ask'd it once — could 

make me staj'^ — 
That proof of trust — so often ask'd 

in vain! 
How justly, after that vile term of 

yours, 
I find with grief ! I might believe you 

then. 
Who knows 1 once more. Lo ! what 

was once to me 
Mere matter of the fancy, now hath 

grown 
The vast necessity of heart and life. 
Farewell ; think gently of me, for I 

fear 
My fate or folly, passing gayer youth 
For one so old, must be to love thee 

still. 
But ere I leave thee let me swear once 

more 
That if I schemed against thy peace 

in this, 
May yon just heaven, that darkens 

o'er me, send 
One flash, that, missing all things else, 

may make 
My scheming brain a cinder, if I 

lie." 

Scarce had she ceased, when out of 

heaven a bolt 
(For now the storm was close above 

them) struck. 
Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining 
With darted spikes and splinters of 

the wood 
The dark earth round. He raised his 

eyes and saw 
The tree that shone white-listed thro' 

the gloom. 
But Vivien, feai'ing heaven had heard 

her oath, 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering 

fork, 
And deafon'd- with the stammering 

cracks and clai)s 
That follow'd, flying back and crying 

out. 



" @ Merlin, tho' you do not love me, 

save, 
Yet save me ! " clung to him and 

hugg'd him close ; 
And call'd him dear protector in her 

fright. 
Nor yet forgot her practice in her 

fright, 
But wrought upon his mood and 

hugg'd him close. 
The pale blood of the wizard at her 

touch 
Took gayer colors, like an opal 

warm'd. 
She blamed herself for telling hearsay 

tales : 
She shook from fear, and for her fault 

she wept 
Of petulancy ; she call'd him lord and 

liege. 
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of 

eve, 
Her God, her Merlin, the one passion- 
ate love 
Of her whole life ; and ever overhead 
Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten 

branch 
Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 
Above them ; and in change of glare 

and gloom 
Her eyes and neck glittering went and 

came ; 
Till now the storm, its burst of passion 

spent, 
Moaning and calling out of other 

lands. 
Had left the ravaged woodland yet 

once more 
To peace ; and what should not have 

been had been, 
For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn. 
Had yielded, told her all the charm, 

and slept. 

Then, in one moment, she put forth 

the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, 
And lost to life and use and name and 

fame. 

Then crying " I have made his glory 
mine," 

And shrieking out "O fool!" the har- 
lot leapt 

Adown the forest, and the thicket 
closed 

Behind her, and the forest echo'd 
"fool." 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 
Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, 
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 
High in her chamber up a tower to 
the east 



LANCELOT AND ELALVE. 



251 



Guarded the sacred shield of Lance- 
lot; 
Which first she placed where morn- 
ing's earliest ray 
Might strike it, and awake her with 

the gleam; 
Then fearing rust or soilure fashion'd 

for it 
A case of silk, and braided thereupon 
All tlie devices blazon'd on the shield 
In their own tinct, and added, of her 

wit, 
A border fantasy of branch and flower. 
And yellow-throated nestling in the 

nest. 
Nor rested thus content, but day by 

day. 
Leaving her household and good 

father, climb'd 
That eastern tower, and entering 

barr'd her door, 
Stript off the case, and read the naked 

shield. 
Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his 

arms. 
Now made a pretty history to herself 
Of every dint a sword had beaten in 

it, 
And every scratch a lance had made 

upon it, 
Conjecturing wlien and where : this 

cut is fresli; 
That ten years back ; this dealt him 

at Caerlyle ; 
That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : 
And ah God's mercy, what a stroke 

was there ! 
And here a thrust that might have 

kill'd, but God 
Broke the strong lance, and roU'd his 

enemy down. 
And saved him : so she lived in fan- 
tasy. 

How came the lily maid by that 

good shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n 

his name ? 
He left it witli her, when he rode to tilt 
For the great diamond in the diamond 

jousts, 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by 

that name 
Had named them, since a diamond 

was the prize. 

For Arthur, long before they 

crown'd him King, 
Roving the trackless realms of Lyon- 

nesse. 
Had found a glen, gray boulder and 

black tarn. 
A horror lived about the tarn, and 

clave 
Like its own mists to all the mountain 

side : 



Tor iiere two brothers, one a king, 

had met 
And fought together ; but their names 

were lost; 
And each had slain his brother at a 

blow; 
And down they fell and made the glen 

abhorr'd : 
And tliere they lay till all their bones 

were bleacii'd. 
And lichen'd into color with the crags :, 
And lie, that once was king, had on a 

crown 
Of diamonds, one in front, and four 

aside. 
And Arthur came, and laboring up the 

pass, 
All in a misty moonshine, unawares 
Had trodden that ci'own'd skeleton, 

and the skull 
Brake from the nape, and from the 

skull the crown 
RoU'd into light, and turning on its 

rims 
Fled like a glittering rivulet to the 

tarn : 
And down the shingly scaur he 

plunged, and caught. 
And set it on his head, and in his heart 
Heard murmurs, " Lo, thou likewise 

shalt be King." 

Thereafter, when a King, he had the 

gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd 

them to his knights. 
Saying "These jewels, whereupon I 

chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the 

King's — 
For public use : henceforward let 

thei'e be. 
Once every year, a joust for one of 

these : 
For so by nine years' proof we needs 

must learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves 

shall grow 
Li use of arms and manhood, till we 

drive 
The heathen, who, some say, shall rule 

the land 
Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus 

he spoke : 
And eight years past, eight jousts had 

been, and still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the 

year, 
With purpose to present them to the 

Queen, 
When all were won ; but meaning all 

at once 
To snare her royal fancy with a 

boon 
Worth half her realm, had never 

spoken word. 



252 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



Now for the central diamond and 

the hist 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his 

court 
Hard on the river nigh the place which 

now 
Is this world's Imgest, let proclaim a 

joust 
At Camelot, and when the time drew 

nigh 
Spake (for she had been sick) to 

Guinevere, 
" Are you so sick, my Queen, you can- 
not move 
To these fair jousts ? " "Yea, lord," 

she said, "ye know it." 
"Then will ye miss," he answer'd, 

"the great deeds 
Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the 

lists, 
A sight ye love to look on." And the 

Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt lan- 
guidly 
On Lancelot, where he stood beside 

the King. 
He thinking that he read her meaning 

there, 
" Stay with me, I am sick ; my love is 

more 
Than many diamonds," yielded ; and 

a heart 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the 

Queen 
( However much he yearn'd to make 

complete 
The tale of diamonds for his destined 

boon) 
Urged him to speak against the truth, 

and s<\y, 
" Sir King, mine ancient wound is 

hardly whole, 
And lets me from the saddle ; " and 

the King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and 

went his way. 
No sooner gone than suddenly she 

began : 



" To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, 

much to blame! 
Why go ye not to these fair jousts % 

the knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and the 

crowd 
Will murmur, 'Lo the shameless 

ones, who take 
Their pastime now the trustful King 

is gone ! ' " 
Then Lancelot vext at having lied in 

vain : 
" Are ye so wise ? ye were not once 

so wise, 
My Queen, that summer, when ye 

loved me first. 



Then of the crowd ye took no more 

account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the 

mead. 
When its own voice clings to each 

blade of grass, 
And every voice is nothing. As to 

knights. 
Them surely can I silence with all 

ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow'd 
Of all men: many a bard, without 

offence. 
Has link'd our names together in his 

lay, 

Lancelot, the flower of bravery, 

Guinevere, 
The pearl of beauty : and our knights 

at feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while 

the King 
AVould listen smiling. How then ? is 

there more 1 
Has Arthur spoken aught ? or would 

yourself, 
Now weary of m}' service and devoir. 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless 

lord ? " 

She broke into a little scornful 

laugh : 
" Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the fault- 
less King, 
That passionate perfection, my good 

lord — 
But who can gaze upon the Sun in 

heaven 1 
He never spake word of reproach ta 

me. 
He never had a glimpse of mine un- 
truth. 
He cares not forme : only here to-day 
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his 

eyes: 
Some meddling rogue has tamper'd 

with him — else 
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 
And swearing men to vows impossible, 
To make them like himself: but, 

friend, to me 
He is all fault who hath no fault at 

all: 
For who loves me must have a touch 

of earth ; 
The low sun makes the color : I am 

yours. 
Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by 

the bond. 
And therefore hear my words : go to 

the jousts : 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break 

our dream 
When sweetest; and the vermin 

voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, 

but they sting." 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



2S1 



Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief 
of knights : 

" And with what face, after my pre- 
text made, 

Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, 
I 

Before a King who honors his o\Yn 
work. 

As if it were his God's 1 " 

" Yea," said the Queen, 
" A moral child without the craft to 

rule. 
Else had he not lost me : hut listen to 

me, 
If I must find you wit : we hear it 

said 
That men go down hef ore j^our spear 

at a touch, 
But knowing you are Lancelot ; your 

great name. 
This conquers : hide it therefore ; go 

unknown : 
Win ! by this kiss you will : and our 

true King 
Will then allow your pretext, O my 

knight. 
As all for glory ; for to speak him 

true. 
Ye know right well, how meek soe'er 

he seem. 
No keener hunter after glory breatlies. 
He loves it in his knights more than 

himself : 
They prove to him his work : win and 

return." 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to 
horse, 
Wroth at himself. Not willing to be 

known. 
He left the barren-beaten thorough- 
fare. 
Chose the green path that show'd the 

rarer foot. 
And there among the solitary downs, 
Full often lost m fancy, lost his 

way; 
Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd 

track, 
That all in loops and links among the 

dales 
Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw- 
Fired from the west, far on a hill, the 

towers. 
Thither he made, and blew the gate- 
way horn. 
Then came an old, dumb, m3^riad- 

wrinkled man. 
Who let him into lodging and dis- 

arm'd. 
And Lancelot marvell'd at the word- 
less man ; 
And issuing found the lord of Astolat 
With two strong sons. Sir Torre and 
Sir Lavaine, 



Moving to meet him in the castle 

court ; 
And close behind them stept the lily 

maid 
Elaine, his daughter : mother of the 

house 
There was not : some light jest 

among them rose 
With laughter dying down as the 

great knight 
Ai^proach'd them : then the Lord of 

Astolat : 
" Whence comest thou, my guest, and 

by what name 
Livest between the lips ? for by thy 

state 
And presence I might guess thee 

chief of those. 
After the King, who eat in Arthur's 

halls. 
Him have I seen : the rest, his Table 

Round, 
Known as they are, to me they are 

unknown." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief 

of knights : 
" Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, 

and known. 
What I b}'^ mere mischance have 

brought, my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one un- 
known 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me 

not. 
Hereafter ye shall know me — and 

the shield — 
I pray you lend me one, if such you 

have. 
Blank, or at least with some device 

not mine." 

Then said the Lord of Astolat, 

" Here is Torre's : 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir 

Torre. 
And so, God wot, his shield is blank 

enough. 
His ye can have." Then added plain 

Sir Torre, 
" Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may 

have it." 
Here laugh'd the father saying, "Fie, 

Sir Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight ? 
Allow him ! but Lavaine, my younger 

here. 
He is so full of lustihood, he will 

ride. 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in 

an hour, 
And set it in this damsel's golden 

hair, 
To make her thrice as wilful as be- 
fore." 



254 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



"Nay, father, nay good father, 

shame me not 
Before this noble knight," said young 

Lavaine, 
"For nothing. Surely I but play'd 

on Torre : 



He seem'd so sullen, vext he could 

not go : 
A jest, no more ! for, knight, the 

maiden dreamt 
That some one put this diamond in 

her liand. 




" Then siie, ivho held her eyes upon the ground, 
Elaine, and heard her name so tost about." 



And that it was too slippery to be 

held. 
And slipt and fell into some pool or 

stream. 
The castle-well, belike ; and then I 

said 
That if I went and if I fought and 

won it 
(But all was jest and joke among our- 
selves) 
Then must she keep it safelier. All 

was jest. 
But, father, give me leave, an if he will. 
To ride to Camelot with this noble 

knight : 
Win shall I not, but do my best to 

win : 



Young as I am, yet would I do my 
best." 

" So ye will grace me," answer'd 

Lancelot, 
Smiling a moment, " with your fellow- 
ship 
O'er these waste downs whereon I 

lost myself. 
Then were I glad of you as guide and 

friend : 
And you shall win this diamond, — 

as I hear 
It is a fair large diamond, — if ye 

may. 
And yield it to this maiden, if ye- 

will." 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



255 



" A fair large diamond," added plain 
Sir Torre, 

" Such be for queens, and not for sim- 
ple maids." 

Then she, who held her eyes upon the 
ground, 

Elaine, and heard her name so tost 
about, 

Flush'd sligiitly at the slight dispar- 
agement 

Before the stranger knight, who, look- 
ing at her, 

Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus 
return'd : 

" If what is fair be but for what is 
fair. 

And only queens are to be counted so, 

Rash were my judgment then, who 
deem this maid 

Might wear as fair a jewel as is on 
earth, 

Not violating the bond of like to like." 

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid 
Elaine, 

Won by the mellow voice before she 
look'd. 

Lifted her eyes, and read his linea- 
ments. 

The great and guilty love he bare the 
Queen, 

In battle with the love he bare his 
lord, 

Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it 
ere his time. 

Another sinning on such heights with 
one, 

The flower of all the west and all the 
world. 

Had been the sleeker for it : but in 
him 

His mood was often like a fiend, and 
rose 

And drove him into wastes and soli- 
tudes 

For agony, who was yet a living soul. 

Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the good- 
liest man 

That ever among ladies ate in hall. 

And noblest, when she lifted up her 
eyes. 

However marr'd, of more than twice 
lier years, 

Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on 
the cheek. 

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up 
her eyes 

And loved him, with that love which 
was her doom. 

Then the great knight, the darling 

of the court. 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude 

hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half 

disdain 



Hid under grace, as in a smaller 

time, 
But kindly man moving among his 

kind : 
Whom they with meats and vintage 

of their best 
And talk and minstrel melody enter- 

tain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and 

Table Round, 
And ever well and readily answer'd 

he: 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless 

man, 
Heard from the Baron that, ten years 

before. 
The heathen caught and reft him of 

his tongue. 
" He learnt and warn'd me of their 

fierce design 
Against my house, and him they 

caught and maim'd ; 
But I, my sons, and little daughter 

fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt among 

the woods 
By the great river in a boatman's 

hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good 

Arthur broke 
The Pagan yet once more on Badon 

hill." 

"O there, great lord, doubtless," 

Lavaine said, rapt 
By all the sweet and sudden passion 

of 3'outh 
Toward greatness in its elder, " you 

have fought. 
tell us — for we live apart — you 

know 
Of Arthur's glorious wars." And 

Lancelot spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having 

been 
With Arthur in the fight which all 

day long 
Rang by the white mouth of the vio- 

. lent Glem ; 
And in the four loud battles by the 

shore 
Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the 

war 
That thunder'd in and out the gloomy 

skirts 
Of Celidon the forest ; and again 
By castle Gurnion, where the glorious 

King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's 

Head, 
Carved of one emerald center'd in a 

sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he 

breathed ; 



256 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



And at Caerlcon had he helped his 

lord, 
When the strong neighings of the wild 

wliite Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agned-Cathregonion too, 
And down the waste sand-shores of 

Trath Treroit, 
Where many a heathen fell ; " and on 

the mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table 

Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and 

him, 
And break them ; and I saw him, after, 

stand 
High on a heap of slain, from spur to 

plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen 

blood, 
And seeing me, with a great voice he 

cried, 
' They are broken, they are broken ! ' 

for the King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor 

cares 
For triumph in our mimic wars, the 

jousts — 
For if his own knight cast him down, 

he laughs 
Saying, his knights are better men 

than he — 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of 

God 
Fills him : I never saw his like : there 

lives 
No greater leader." 

While he utter'd this. 
Low to her own heart said the lily 

maid, 
" Save your great self, fair lord ; " 

and when he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleas- 
antry — 
Being mirthful he, but in a stately 

kind — 
Sh« still took note that when the 

living smile 
Died from his lips, across him came 

a cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which 

again. 
Whenever in her hovering to and 

fro 
The lily maid had striven to make him 

cheer. 
There brake a sudden-beaming ten- 
derness 
Of manners and of nature : and she 

thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, 

for her. 
And all night long his face before her 

lived, 



As when a painter, poring on a face, 
Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the 

man 
Behind it, and so paints him that his 

face. 
The shape and color of a mind and 

life, 
Lives for his children, ever at its best 
And fullest; so the face before her 

lived, 
Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, 

full 
Of noble things, and held her from 

her sleep. 
Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the 

thought 
She needs must bid farewell to sweet 

Lavaine. 
First as in fear, step after step, she 

stole 
Down the long tower-stairs, hesitat- 
ing: 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in 

the court, 
" This shield, my friend, where is it ? " 

and Lavaine 
Past inward, as she came from out 

the tower. 
There to his proud horse Lancelot 

turn'd, and sniooth'd 
The glossy shoulder, humming to 

himself. 
Half-envious of the flattering hand, 

she drew 
Nearer and stood. He look'd, and 

more amazed 
Than if seven men had set upon him, 

saw 
The maiden standing in the dewy 

light. 
He had not dream'd she was so beau- 
tiful. 
Then came on him a sort of sacred 

fear. 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she 

stood 
Eapt on his face as if it were a 

God's. 
Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire. 
That he should wear her favor at the 

tilt. 
She braved a riotous heart in asking 

for it. 
"Fair lord, whose name I know not — 

noble it is, 
I well believe, the noblest — will you 

wear 
My favor at this tourney ? " " Nay," 

said he, 
" Fair lady, since I never yet have 

worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists. 
Such is my wont, as those, who know 

me, know." 
" Yea, so," she answer'd ; " then in 

wearing mine 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



257 



Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble 

lord, 
That those who know should know 

you." And he turn'd 
Her counsL'I up and down within his 

mind. 
And found it true, and answer'd 

" True, my child. 
Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to 

me : 
What is it ? " and she told him " A red 

sleeve 
Broider'd with i^earls," and brought 

it : then he bound 
Her token on his helmet, with a smile 
Saying, " I never yet have done so 

much 
For any maiden living," and the blood 
Sprang to her face and fiU'd her with 

delight ; 
But left her all the paler, when 

Lavaine 
Returning brought the yet-unblazon'd 

shield, 
His brother's ; which he gave to 

Lancelot, 
Who parted with his own to fair 

Elaine : 
"Do me this grace, my child, to have 

my shield 
In keeping till I come." " A grace to 

me," 
She answer'd, " twice to-day. I am 

your squire ! " 
Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, 

" Lily maid, 
For fear our people call you lily 

maid 
In earnest, let me bring your color 

back ; 
Once, twice, and thrice : now get you 

hence to bed : " 
So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his 

own hand. 
And thus they moved away ; she 

stay'd a minute. 
Then made a sudden step to the gate, 

and there — 
Her bright hair blown about the 

serious face 
Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's 

kiss — 
Paused by the gateway, standing near 

the shield 
In silence, while she watch'd their 

arms far-off 
Sparkle, until they dijit below the 

downs. 
Then to her tower she climb'd, and 

took the shield, 
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions 
past away 
Far o'er the long backs of the bushless 
downs, 



To where Sir Lancelot knew there 
lived a knight 

Not far from Camelot, now for forty 
years 

A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd and 
pray'd. 

And ever laboring had scoop'd him- 
self 

In the white rock a chapel and a hall 

On massive columns, like a shorecliff 
cave. 

And cells and chambers : all were fair 
and dry ; 

The green light from the meadows 
underneath 

Struck up and lived along the milky 
roofs ; 

And in the meadows tremulous aspen- 
trees 

And poplars made a noise of falling 
showers. 

And thither wending tliere that night 
they bode. 

But wlien tlie ne.\t day broke from 

underground. 
And shot red fire and shadows thro' 

the cave. 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and 

rode away : 
Then Lancelot saying, " Hear, but 

hold my name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the 

Lake." 
Abash'd Lavaine, whose instant rev- 
erence. 
Dearer to true young hearts than their 

own praise. 
But left him leave to stammer, " Is it 

indeed ? " 
And after muttering " The great 

Lancelot," 
At last he got liis breath and answer'd, 

" One, 
One have I seen — that other, our 

liege lord. 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's King 

of kings. 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously. 
He will be there — then were I stricken 

blind 
That minute, I might say that I had 

seen." 

So spake Lavaine, and wlien they 

reach'd the lists 
By Camelot in the meadow, let his 

eyes 
Run thro' the peopled gallery which 

half round 
Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the 

grass. 
Until they found the clear-faced ffing, 

who sat 
Robed in red samite, easily to be 

known. 



258 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



Since to his crown the golden dragon 
clung, 

And down his robe the dragon writhed 
in gold, 

And from the carven-work behind 
liini crept 

Two dragons gilded, sloping down to 
make 

Arras for his chair, while all the rest 
of them 

Thro' knots and loops and folds innu- 
merable 

Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they 
found 

The new design wherein they lost 
themselves, 

Yet with all ease, so tender was the 
work : 

And, in the costly canopy o'er him 
set, 

Blazed the last diamond of the name- 
less king. 

Then Lancelot answer'd young 

Lavaine and said, 
" Me 3'ou call great : mine is the 

firmer seat, 
The truer lance : but there is many a 

youth 
Now crescent, who will come to all I 

am 
And overcome it; and in me there 

dwells 
No greatness, save it be some far-off 

touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not 

great : 
There is the man." And Lavaine 

gaped upon him 
As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew ; and then did 

either side. 
They that assail'd, and they that held 

the lists. 
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly 

move, 
Meet, in the midst, and there so 

furiously 
Shock, that a man far-off might well 

perceive. 
If any man that day were left afield, 
The hard earth shake, and a low thun- 
der of arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 
Which were the weaker ; then he 

hurl'd into it 
Against the stronger : little need to 

speak 
Of Lancelot in his glory ! King, duke, 

earl. 
Count, baron — whom he smote, he 

overthre\y. 

But in the field were Lancelot's 
kith and kin, 



Ranged with the Table Round that 

held the lists, 
Strong men, and wrathful that a 

stranger knight 
Should do and almost overdo the 

deeds 
Of Lancelot; and one said to the 

other, "Lo ! 
What is he ? I do not mean the force 

alone — 
The grace and versatility of the man ! 
Is it not Lancelot ? " " When has 

Lancelot worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists % 
Not such his wont, as we, that know 

him, know." 
" How then ? who then ? " a fury 

seized them all, 
A fiery family passion for tlie name 
Of Lancelot, and a glory one with 

theirs. 
They couch'd their spears and prick'd 

their steeds, and thus. 
Their plumes driv'n backward by the 

wind they made 
In moving, all together down upon 

him 
Bare, as a wild wave in the wide 

North-sea, 
Green-glimmering toward the summit, 

bears, with all 
Its stormy crests that smoke against 

the skies, 
Down on a bark, and overbears the 

bark. 
And him that helms it, so they over- 
bore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a 

spear 
Down-glancing lamed the charger, and 

a spear 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and 

the head 
Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, 

and remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and wor- 
shipfully ; 

He bore a knight of old repute to the 
earth. 

And brought his horse to Lancelot 
where he lay. 

He up the side, sweating with agony, 
got, 

But thought to do while he might yet 
endure, 

And being lustily holpen by the 
rest. 

His party, — tho' it seem'd half- 
miracle 

To those he fought with, — drave his 
kith and kin. 

And all the Table Round that held 
the lists, 

Back to the barrier; then the trum- 
pets blew 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



259 



Proclaiming his the prize, who wore 

the sleeve 
Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the 

knights. 
His party, cried " Advance and take 

thy prize 
The diamond ; " but he answer'd, 

" Diamond me 
No diamonds! for God's love, a little 

air! 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is 

death ! 
Hence will I, and I charge you, follow 

me not." 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly 

from the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar 

grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, 

and sat. 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, "Draw the 

lance-head : " 
" Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot," said 

Lavaine, 
"I dread me, if I draw it, you will 

die." 
But he, " I die already with it : draw — 
Draw," — and Lavaine drew, and Sir 

Lancelot gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly 

groan, 
And half his blood burst forth, and 

down he sank 
For the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd 

away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare 

him in, 
There stanch'd his wound ; and there, 

in daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a 

week 
Hid from the wide world's rumor by 

the grove 
Of poplars with their noise of falling 

showers, 
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he 

lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled 

the lists, 
His party, knights of utmost North 

and West, 
Lords of waste marches, kings of des- 
olate isles. 
Came round their great Pendragon, 

saying to him, 
" Lo, Sire, our knight, thro' whom we 

won the day, 
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath 

left his prize 
Untaken, crying that his prize is 

death." 
" Heaven hinder," said the King, " that 

such an one. 



So great a knight as we have seen 

to-day — 
He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 
Yea, twenty times I thought him 

Lancelot — 
He must not pass uncared for. 

Wherefore, rise, 

Gawain, and ride forth and find the 

knight. 
Wounded and wearied needs must lie 
be near. 

1 charge you that you get at once to 

horse. 
And, knights and kings, there breathes 

not one of you 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly 

given : 
His prowess was too wondrous. We 

will do him 
No customary honor : since the knight 
Came not to us, of us to claim the 

prize, 
Ourselves will send it after. Rise and 

take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and 

return, 
And bring us where he is, and how he 

fares, 
And cease not from your quest imtil 

ye find." 

So saying, from the carven flower 

above, 
To which it made a restless heart, he 

took. 
And gave, the diamond : then from 

where he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face 

arose, 
With smiling face and frowning heart, 

a Prince 
In the mid might and flourish of his 

May, 
Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, 

fair and strong. 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and 

Geraint 
And Gareth, a good knight, but 

therewithal 
Sir Modred's brother, and the child 

of Lot, 
Nor often loyal to his word, and 

now 
Wroth that the King's command to 

sally forth 
In quest of whom he knew not, made 

him leave 
The banquet, and concourse of knights 

and kings. 

So all in wrath he got to horse and 

went ; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in 

mood, 
Past, thinking "Is it Lancelot who 

hath come 



260 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



Despite the wound he spake of, all for 

gain 
Of glory, and hath added wound to 

wound. 
And ridd'n away to die ? " So fear'd 

tlie King, 
And, after two days' tarriance there, 

return'd. 
Then when he saw the Queen, em- 
bracing ask'd, 
" Love, are you yet so sick ? " " Nay, 

lord," she said. 
" And where is Lancelot '? " Then the 

Queen amazed, 
■" Was he not with you 1 won he not 

your prize ? " 
*' Nay, but one like him." " Why that 

like was he." 
And when the King demanded how 

she knew, 
Said, " Lord, no sooner had ye parted 

from us. 
Than Lancelot told me of a common 

talk 
That men went down before his spear 

at a touch. 
But knowing he was Lancelot; his 

great name 
Conquer'd ; and therefore would he 

hide his name 
From all men, ev'n the King, and to 

this end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering 

wound, 
That he might joust unknown of all, 

and learn 
If his old prowess were in aught 

decay'd ; 
And added, 'Our true Arthur, when 

he learns, 
Will well allow my pretext, as for 

gain 
Of purer glory.' " 

Then replied the King : 
" Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it 

been, 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth. 
To have trusted me as lie hath trusted 

thee. 
Surely liis King and most familiar 

friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, 

indeed, 
Albeit I know my knights fantastical. 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter : 

now remains 
But little cause for laughter : his own 

kin — 
111 news, my Queen, for all who love 

him, this ! — 
His kitli and kin, not knowing, set 

upon him ; 
So that he went sore wounded from 

the field: 



Yet good news too : for goodly hopes 

are mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely 

heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his 

helm 
A sleeve of scarlet, broider'd with 

great pearls. 
Some gentle maiden's gift." 

" Yea, lord," she said, 
"Thy hopes are mine," and saying 

that, she choked, 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her 

face. 
Past to her chamber, and there flung 

herself 
Down on the great King's couch, and 

writhed upon it, 
And clench'd her fingers till they bit 

the palm. 
And shriek'd out " Traitor " to the 

unhearing wall. 
Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose 

again, 
And moved about her palace, proud 

and pale. 

Gawainthe while thro' all the region 

round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of 

the quest, 
Touch'd at all points, except the pop- 
lar grove. 
And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat : 
Whom glittering in enamell'd arms 
• tlie maid 

Glanced at, and cried, " What news 

from Camelot, lord ? 
What of the knight with tlie red 

sleeve ? " " He won." 
"I knew it," she said. "But parted 

from the jousts 
Hurt in the side," whereat she caught 

her breath ; 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp 

lance go ; 
Thereon she smote her hand : wellnigh 

she swoon'd : 
And, while he gazed wonderingly at 

her, came 
The Lord of Astolat out, to whom 

the Prince 
Reported who he was, and on what 

quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could 

not find 
The victor, but had ridd'n a random 

round 
To seek him, and had wearied of the 

search. 
To whom the Lord of Astolat, " Bide 

with us. 
And ride no more at random, noble 

Prince ! 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



261 



Here was the knight, and here he left 

a shield; 
This will he send or come for : fur- 
thermore 
Our son is with him ; we shall hear 

anon, 
Needs must we hear." To this the 

courteous Prince 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy. 
Courtesy witli a touch of traitor in it, 
And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on fair 

Elaine : 
Where could be found face daintier '? 

then her shajae 
From forehead down to foot, perfect 

— again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely 

turn'd : 
" Well — if I bide, lo ! this wild flower 

for me ! " 
And oft they met among the garden 

yews, 
And there he set himself to play upon 

her 
With sallying wit, free flashes from a 

height 
Above her, graces of the court, and 

songs. 
Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden 

eloquence 
And amorous adulation, till the 

maid 
Rebell'd against it, saying to him, 

" Prince, 
loyal nephew of our noble King, 
Why ask you not to see the shield he 

left, 
Whence you might learn his name 1 

Why slight your King, 
And lose the quest he sent you on, 

and i>rove 
No surer than our falcon yesterday. 
Who lost the hern we slipt her at, 

and went 
To all the winds 1 " " Nay, by mine 

head," said he, 
"I lose it, as we lose the lark in 

heaven, 
damsel, in the light of your blue 

eyes; 
But an ye will it let me see the 

shield." 
And when the shield was brought, and 

Gawain saw 
Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd 

with gold, 
Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, 

and mock'd : 
" Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! 

that true man ! " 
" And right was I," she answer 'd 

merrily, " I, 
Who dream'd my knight the greatest 

knight of all." 
'* And if / dream'd," said Gawain, 

" that you love 



This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, 

ye know it ! 
Speak therefore : shall I waste myself 

in vain ? " 
Full snnple was her answer, " What 

know I '\ 
My brethren have been all my fellow- 
ship ; 
And I, when often they have talk'd 

of love, 
Wish'd it had been my mother, for 

they talk'd, 
Meseem'd, of what they knew not ; so 

myself — 
I know not if I know what true love is. 
But if I know, then, if I love not him, 
I know tliere is none other I can love." 
" Yea, by God's death," said he, " ye 

love him well. 
But would not, knew ye what all 

others know, 
And whom he loves." " So be it," 

cried Elaine, 
And lifted her fair face and moved 

away : 
But he pursued her, calling, " Stay a 

little ! 
One golden minute's grace ! he wore 

your sleeve : 
Would he break faith witii one I may 

not name "? 
Must our true man change like a leaf 

at last ? 
Nay — like enow : why then, far be it 

from me 
To cross our mighty Lancelot in his 

loves! 
And, damsel, for I deem you know 

full well 
Where your great knight is hidden, 

let me leave 
My quest with you ; the diamond also ; 

here! 
For if you love, it will be sweet to 

give it; 
And if he love, it will be sweet to have 

it 
From your own hand ; and whether 

he love or not, 
A diamond is a diamond. Fare you 

well 
A thousand times! — a thousand times 

farewell ! 
Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we 

two 
May meet at court hereafter: there, 

I think. 
So ye will learn the courtesies of the 

court. 
We two shall know each other." 

Then he gave. 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which 

he gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the 

quest 



262 



LANCELOT AND ELALVE. 



Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he 

went, 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past ; there 

told tiie King 
What the King knew, " Sir Lancelot 

is the knight." 
And added, " Sire, my liege, so much 

I learnt ; 
But fail'd to find him, tho'J rode all 

round 
The region : but I lighted on the maid 
Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves him; 

and to her. 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest 

law, 
I gave the diamond : she will render it ; 
For by mine head she knows his hid- 
ing-place." 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, 
and replied, 

" Too courteous truly ! ye shall go no 
more 

On quest of mine, seeing that ye for- 
get 

Obedience is the courtesy due to 
kings." 

He spake and parted. Wroth, but 
all in awe, 

For twenty strokes of the blood, with- 
out a word, 

Linger'd that other, staring after him ; 

Then shook his hair, strode off, and 
buzz'd abroad 

About the maid of Astolat, and her 
love. 

All ear,s were prick'd at once, all 
tongues were loosed : 

" The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lance- 
lot, 

Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Asto- 
lat." 

Some read tlie King's face, some the 
Queen's, and all 

Had marvel what the maid might be, 
but most 

Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old 
dame 

Came suddenly on the Queen with the 
sharp news. 

She, that had heard the noise of it 
before, 

But sorrowing Lancelot should have 
stoop'd so low, 

Marr'd her friend's aim with pale 
tranquillity. 

So ran the tale like fire about the 
court, 

Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' won- 
der flared : 

Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice 
or thrice 



Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the 

Queen, 
And pledging Lancelot and the lily 

maid 
Smiled at each other, while the Queen, 

Avho sat 
With lips severely placid, felt the 

knot 
Climb in her throat, and with her feet 

unseen 
Crush'd the wild passion out against 

tlie floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats 

became 
As wormwood, and she hated all who 

pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 

Her guiltless rival, she that ever 
kept 

The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her 
heart, 

Crept to her father, while he mused 
alone. 

Sat on his knee, stroked his gray 
face and said, 

" Father, you call me wilful, and the 
fault 

Is youi's who let me have my will, and 
now. 

Sweet father, will you let me lose my 
wits ? " 

"Nay," said he, "surely." "Where- 
fore, let me hence," 

She answer'd, " and find out our dear 
Lavaine." 

"Ye will not lose your wits for dear 
Lavaine : 

Bide," answer'd he : " we needs must 
hear anon 

Of him, and of that other." "Ay," 
she said, 

" And of that other, for I needs must 
hence 

And find that other, wheresoe'er he 
be. 

And with mine own hand give his dia- 
mond to him. 

Lest I be found as faithless in the 
quest 

As yon proud Prince who left the 
quest to me. 

Sweet father, I behold him in my 
dreams 

Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- 
self. 

Death -pale, for lack of gentle 
maiden's aid. 

The gentler-born the maiden, the 
more bound, 

My father, to be sweet and service- 
able 

To noble knights in sickness, as ye 
know 

When these have worn their tokens : 
let me hence 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



263 



I pray you." Then her father nod- 
ding said, 
"Ay, ay, the diamond: wit ye well, 

my child. 
Eight fain were I to learn this knight 

were whole, 
Being our greatest : yea, and you 

must give it — 
And sure I think this fruit is hung 

too high 
Por any mouth to gape for save a 

queen's — 
Nay, I mean notliing : so then, get you 

gone. 
Being so very wilful you must go." 

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt 

away, 
And while she made her ready for 

her ride, 
Her father's latest word humm'd in 

her ear, 
" Being so very wilful you must go," 
And changed itself and echo'd in her 

heart, 
" Being so very wilful you must die." 
But she was happy enough and shook 

it off. 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes 

at us ; 
And in her heart she answer'd it and 

said, 
" "What matter, so I help him back to 

life ? " 
Then far away with good Sir Torre 

for guide 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bush- 
less downs 
To Camelot, and before the city-gates 
Came on her brother with a happy 

face 
Making a roan horse caper and curvet 
For pleasure all about a field of 

flowers : 
Whom when she saw, "Lavaine," she 

cried, "Lavaine, 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot ? " 

He amazed, 
" Torre and Elaine ! why here % Sir 

Lancelot! 
How know ye my lord's name is Lan- 
celot ? " 
But when the maid had told him all 

her tale. 
Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in his 

moods 
Left them, and under the strange- 

statued gate. 
Where Arthur's wars were render'd 

mystically, 
Past up the still rich city to his 

kin, 
His own far blood, which dwelt at 

Camelot ; 
And her, Lavaine across the poplar 

grove 



Led to the caves : there first she saw 

the casque 
Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet 

sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the 

pearls away, 
Stream'd from it still ; and in her 

heart she laugh'd, 
Because he had not loosed it from his 

helm. 
But meant once more perchance to 

tourney in it. 
And when they gain'd the cell wherein 

he slept, 
His battle-writhcn arms and mighty 

hands 
Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a 

dream 
Of dragging down his enemy made 

them move. 
Then she that saw iiim lying unsleek, 

unshorn. 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- 
self, 
Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry. 
The so-und not wonted in a place so 

still 
Woke the sick knight, and while he 

roU'd his eyes 
Yet blank from sleep, she started to 

him, saying, 
" Your prize the diamond sent you by 

the King : " 
His eyes glisten'd: slie fancied "Is it 

for me % " 
And when the maid had told him all 

tlie tale 
Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, 

the quest 
Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she 

knelt 
Full lowly by the corners of his bed. 
And laid the diamond in his open 

hand. 
Her face was near, and as we kiss the 

child 
That does tlie task assign'd, he kiss'd 

her face. 
At once she slipt like water to the 

floor. 
"Alas," he said, "your ride hath 

wearied you. 
Rest must you have." " No rest for 

me," she said ; 
" Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at 

rest." 
What might she mean by that % his 

large black ej^es, 
Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt 

upon her. 
Till all her heart's sad secret blazed 

itself 
In the heart's colors on her simi^le 

face ; 
And Lancelot look'd and was perplext 

in mind. 



264 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



And being weak in body said no more ; 
But did not love the color ; woman's 

love, 
Save one, he not regarded, and so 

turn'd 
Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he 

slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' 

the fields, 
And past beneath the weirdly-sculp- 
tured gates 
Far up tlie dim rich city to her kin ; 
There bode the night : but woke with 

dawn, and past 
Down thro' the dim rich city to the 

the fields. 
Thence to the cave : so day by day 

she past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended 

him. 
And likewise many a night : and 

Lancelot 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a 

little hurt 
Whereof he should be quicklj^ whole, 

at times 
Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, 

seem 
Uncourteous, even he : but the meek 

maid 
Sweetly forbore him ever, being to 

him 
Meeker than any child to a rough 

nurse, 
Milder than any mother to a sick child. 
And never woman yet, since man's 

first fall, 
Did kindlier unto man, but her deep 

love 
Upbore her; till the hermit, skill'd in 

all 
The simples and the science of that 

time, 
Told him that her fine care had saved 

his life. 
And the sick man forgot her simple 

blush, 
Would call her friend and sister, 

sweet Elaine, 
Would listen for her coming and 

regret 
Her parting step, and held her ten- 
derly. 
And loved her with all love except 

the love 
Of man and woman when they love 

their best. 
Closest and sweetest, and had died the 

death 
In any knightly fashion for her sake. 
And peradventure had he seen her 

first 
She might have made this and that 

other world 



Anotlier world for the sick man ; but 

now 
The shackles of an old love straiten'd 

him, 
His honor rooted in dishonor stood. 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely 

true. 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sick- 
ness made 
TuU many a holy vow and pure re- 
solve. 
These, as but born of sickness, could 

not live : 
For when the blood ran lustier in him 

again, 
Full often the bright image of one 

face. 
Making a treacherous quiet in his 

heart, 
Dispersed liis resolution like a 

cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while tliat gliostly 

grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he 

answer'd not, 
Or short and coldly, and she knew 

right well 
What the roiigli sickness meant, but 

what this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd 

her sight. 
And drave her ere her time across the 

fields 
Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd, " Vain, in vain : it 

cannot be. 
He will not love me : how then ? must 

I die % " 
Then as a little helpless innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few 

notes, 
Will sing the simple passage o'er and 

o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 
Went half the night repeating, "Must 

I die ? " 
And now to right she turn'd, and now 

to left, 
And found no ease in turning or in 

rest ; 
And " Him or death," she mutter'd, 

" death or him," 
Again and like a burthen, " Ilim or 

death." 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt 

was wliole, 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her 

sweet self 
In that wherein she deem'd she look'd 

her best. 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she 

tliought 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



265 



" If I be loved, these are my festal 

robes, 
If not, the victim's flowers before he 

fall." 
And Lancelot ever prest upon the 

maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift 

of him 
For her own self or hers ; " and do not 

siiun 
To speak the wish most near to your 

true heart; 
Such service have ye done me, that I 

make 
My will of yours, and Prince and Lord 

am I 
In mine own land, and what I will I 

can." 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her 

face. 
But like a ghost without the power to 

speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld 

her Msh, 
And bode among them yet a little 

space 
Till lie should learn it ; and one morn 

it chanced 
He found her in among the garden 

yews. 
And said, "Delay no longer, sjieak 

your wish, 
Seeing I go to-day " : then out she 

brake : 
" Going ? and we shall never see you 

more. 
And I must die for want of one bold 

word." 
" Speak : that I live to hear," he said, 

"is yours." 
Then suddenly and passionately she 

spoke : 
" I have gone mad. I love you : let 

me die." 
" Ah, sister," answer'd Lancelot, 

" what is this ? " 
And innocently extending her M'hite 

arms, 
"Your love," she said, "your love — 

to be your wife." 
And Lancelot answer'd, "Had I chosen 

to wed, 
I had been wedded earlier, sweet 

Elaine : 
But now there never will be wife of 

mine." 
" No, no," she cried, " I care not to be 

wife. 
But to be with you still, to see your 

face. 
To serve you, and to follow you thro' 

the world." 
And Lancelot answer'd, " Nay, the 

world, the world, 
All ear and eye, with such a stupid 

heart 



To interpret ear and eye, and such a 

tongue 
To blare its own interpretation — 

nay. 
Full ill then should I quit your 

brother's love. 
And your good father's kindness." 

And she said, 
" Not to be with you, not to see your 

face — 
Alas for me then, my good days are 

done." 
" Nay, noble maid," he answer'd, " ten 

times nay ! 
This is not love : but love's first flash 

in youth. 
Most common : yea, I know it of mine 

own self : 
And you yourself will smile at your 

own self 
Hereafter, when you yield your flower 

of life 
To one more fitly yours, not thrice 

your age : 
And then will I, for true you are and 

sweet 
Beyond mine old belief in woman- 
hood, 
More specially should your good 

knight be poor. 
Endow you with broad land and tei'- 

ritory 
Even to the half my realm beyond 

the seas, 
So that would make you happy : 

furthermore, 
Ev'n to the death, as tho' ye were my 

blood. 
In all your quarrels will I be your 

knight. 
This will I do, dear damsel, for your 

sake. 
And more than this I cannot." 

While he spoke 
She neither blush'd nor shook, but 

deathly-pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then 

replied : 
"Of all this will I nothing; " and so 

fell. 
And thus they bore her swooning to 

her tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those 
black walls of yew 

Their talk had pierced, her father : 
" Ay, a flash, 

I fear me, that will strike my blossom 
dead. 

Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lance- 
lot. 

I pray you, use some rough dis- 
courtesy 

To blunt or break her passion." 



266 



LANCELOT AND ELALYE. 



Lancelot said, 
"That were against me: what I can 

I will ; " 
And there that day reniain'd, and 

toward even 
Sent for his shield : full meekly rose 

the maid, 
Stript oft' the case, and gave the naked 

shield ; 
Then, when she heard his horse upon 

the stones, 
Unclasping flung the casement back, 

and look'd 
Down on his helm, from which her 

sleeve had gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking 

sound ; 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was look- 
ing at him. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved 

his hand, 
Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away. 
This was the one discourtesy that he 

used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden 

sat: 
His very shield was gone ; only the 

case. 
Her own poor work, her empty labor, 

left. 
But still she heard him, still his picture 

form'd 
And grew between her and the pic- 
tured wall. 
Then came her father, saying in low 

tones, 
" Have comfort," whom she greeted 

quietly. 
Then came her brethren saying, 

" Peace to thee. 
Sweet sister," whom she answer'd with 

all calm. 
But when they left her to herself 

again. 
Death, like a friend's voice from a dis- 
tant field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, 

call'd; the OMds 
Wailing had power upon her, and she 

mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted 

glooms 
Of evening, and the moanings of the 

Avind. 

And in those days she made a little 

song, 
And call'd her song " The Song of 

Love and Death," 
And sang it : -sweetly could she make 

and sing. 

" Sweet is true love tho' given in 
vain, in vain ; 



And sweet is death who puts an end 

to pain : 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

"Love, art thou sweet 1 then bitter 
death must be : 
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death 
to me. 

Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 

" Sweet love, that seems not made 
to fade away. 
Sweet death, that seems to make us 
loveless clay, 

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" I fain would follow love, if that 

could be ; 
I needs must follow death, who calls 

for me ; 
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me 

die." 

High with the last line scaled her 

voice, and this. 
All in a fiery dawning wild Avith wind 
That shook the tower, the brothers 

heard, and thought 
With shuddering, " Hark the Phan- 
tom of the house 
That ever shrieks before a death," 

and call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and 

fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the blood-red light 

of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling, "Let 

me die ! " 

As when we dwell upon a word we 

know, 
Repeating, till the word we know so 

well 
Becomes a wonder, and we know not 

why. 
So dwelt the father on her face, and 

thought 
" Is tliis Elaine ? " till back the maiden 

fell, 
Then gave a languid hand to each, 

and lay. 
Speaking a still good-morrow with her 

eyes. 
At last she said, " Sweet brothers, yes- 

ter-night 
I seem'd a curious little maid again. 
As happy as when we dwelt among 

the woods, 
And when ye used to take me with 

the flood 
Up the great river in the boatman's 

boat. 
Only ye would not pass beyond the 

cape 
That has the poplar on it : there ye 

fixt 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



161 



Your limit, oft returning with the 

tide, 
And yet I cried because ye would not 

pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining 

flood 
Until we found the i^alace of the 

King. 
And yet ye would not : but this night 

I dream 'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood, 
And then I said, ' Now shall I have 

my will : ' 
And there I woke, but still the wish 

remain'd. 
So let me hence that I may pass at 

last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the 

flood. 
Until I find the palace of the King. 
There will I enter in among them all. 
And no man there will dare to mock 

at me ; 
But there the fine Gawain will wonder 

at me. 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse 

at me ; 
Gawain, who bade a thousand fare- 
wells to me, 
Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bade 

me one : 
And there the King will know me and 

my love, 
And there the Queen herself will pity 

me. 
And all the gentle court will welcome 

me. 
And after my long voyage I shall 

rest ! " 

" Peace," said her father, " O my 

child, ye seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours 

to go 
So far, being sick ? and wherefore 

would ye look 
On this proud fellow again, who 

scorns us all "? " 

Then the rough Torre began to 

heave and move, 
And bluster into stormy sobs and 

say, 
" I never loved him : an I meet with 

him, 
I care not howsoever great he be, 
Then will I strike at him and strike 

him down. 
Give me good fortune, I will strike 

him dead, 
F '■ liscomf ort he hath done the 
use." 

. 'm the gentle sister made 

" .' yourself, dear brother, nor 

roth. 



Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's 

fault 
Not to love me, than it is mine to 

love 
Him of all men who seems to me the 

highest." 

" Highest ? " the father answer'd, 

echoing " highest ? " 
(He meant to break the passion in 

lier) "nay. 
Daughter, I know not what you call 

the highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people 

know it, 
He loves the Queen, and in an open 

shame : 
And she returns his love in open 

shame ; 
If this be high, what is it to be low ? " 

Then spake the lily maid of Asto- 

lat: 
" Sweet father, all too faint and sick 

am I 
For anger : these are slanders : never 

yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made 

a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain : so let me 

pass, 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, 
Not all unhappy, having loved God's 

best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no 

return : 
Yet, seeing you desire your child to 
\f live. 

Thanks, but you work against your 

own desire ; 
For if I could believe the things you 

say 
I should but die the sooner ; wherefore 

cease, 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly 

man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, 

and die." 

So when the ghostly man had come 
and gone, 

She with a face, bright as for sin for- 
given, 

Besought Lavaine to write as she 
devised 

A letter, word for word ; and when he 
ask'd 

" Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear 
lord ? 

Then will I bear it gladly ; " she re- 
plied, 

" For Lancelot and the Queen and all 
the world. 



268 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



But I myself must bear it." Then he 

wrote 
The letter she devised ; which being 

writ 
And folded, " O sweet father, tender 

and true, 
Deny me not," she said — " ye never 

yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however 

strange. 
My latest : lay the letter in my 

hand 
A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it ; I shall guard it even in 

death. 
And when the heat is gone from out 

my heart. 
Then take the little bed on which I 

died ^ 

Tor Lancelot's love, and deck it like 

the Queen's 
For richness, and me also like the 

Queen •* 

In all I have of rich, and lay me on 

it. 
And let there be prepared a chariot- 
bier 
To take me to the river, and a barge 
Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
I go in state to court, to meet the 

Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine 

own self. 
And none of you can speak for me 

so well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man 

alone 
Go with me, he can steer and row, 

and he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the 

doors." 

She ceased : her father promised ; 

whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd 

her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the 

blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on 

the eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand. 
And closed the hand upon it, and she 

died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake from 

underground, 
Then, those two brethren slowly with 

bent brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, 

that shone 
Full-summer, to that stream whereon 

the barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, 

lay. 



There sat the lifelong creature of the 

house. 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his 

face. 
So those two brethren from the chariot 

took 
And on the black decks laid her in 

her bed. 
Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazon- 

ings. 
And kiss'd her quiet brows, and sayinj: 

to her 
" Sister, farewell for ever," and again 
" Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in 

tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and 

the dead, 
Oar'd by the dumb, went upward with 

the flood — 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter^ all her bright hair stream- 
ing down — 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
Drawn to her waist, and she herself 

in white 
All but her face, and that clear-fea- 
tured face 
Was lovcily, for she did not seem as 

dead. 
But fast asleep, and lay as tho' slie 

smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace 

craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costlv 

gift, 
Hard-won and hardly won with bruise 

and blow. 
With deatlis of others, and almost his 

own. 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : 

for he saw 
One of her house, and sent him to the 

Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen 

agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but 

that he, 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd 

her feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong 

eye 
The shadow of some piece of pointed 

lace, 
In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the 

walls. 
And parted, laughing in his courtly 

heart. 
All in an oriel on the summer 

side. 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward 

the stream, 



LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 



269 



They met, and Lancelot kneeling 

utter'd, " Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my 

joy, 
Take, what I had not won except for 

you, 
These jewels, and make me happy, 

making them 
An armlet for the roundest arm on 

earth, 
Or necklace for a neck to which the 

swan's 
Is tawnier than her cygnet's : these 

are words : 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 
' Li speaking, yet grant my worship 

of it 
Words, as we grant grief tears. Such 

sin in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon : but, 

my Queen, 
I hear of rumors flying thro' your 

court. 
Our bond, as not the bond of man and 

wife, 
Should have in it an absoluter trust 
To make up that defect : let rumors 

be: 
When did not rumors fly ? these, as I 

trust 
That you trust me in your own noble- 
ness, 
I may not well believe that you be- 
lieve." 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd 

away, the Queen 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering 

vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast 

them off. 
Till all the place whereon she stood 

was green ; 
Then, when he ceased, in one cold 

passive hand 
Received at once and laid aside the 

gems 
There on a table near her, and replied : 

" It may be, I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the 

Lake. 
Our bond is not the bond of man and 

wife. 
This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill. 
It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite 

and wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of 

hearts 
I did acknowledge nobler. What are 

these ? 
Diamonds for me ! they had been 

thrice their worth 
Being your gift, had j'ou not lost your 

own. 



To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for 

me ! 
For her ! for your new fancy. Only 

this 
Grant me, I pray you : have your joys 

apart. 
I doubt not that however changed, 

you keep 
So much of what is graceful : and 

myself 
Would shun to break those bounds of 

courtesy 
In which as Arthur's Queen I move 

and rule : 
So cannot speak my mind. An end 

to this ! 
A strange one ! yet I take it with 

Amen. 
So pray you, add my diamonds to her 

pearls ; 
Deck her with these ; tell her, she 

shines me down : 
An armlet for an arm to which the 

Queen's 
Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 
O as much fairer — as a faith once fair 
Was richer than these diamonds — 

hers not mine — 
Nay, by the mother of our Lord him- 
self, 
Or hers or mine, mine now to work 

my will — 
She shall not have them." 

Saying which she seized. 
And, thro' the casement standing wide 

for heat. 
Flung them, and down they flash'd, 

^ and smote the stream. 
Then from the smitten surface flash'd, 

as it were, 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past 

away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half 

disdain 
At love, life, all things, on the window 

ledge, 
Close underneath his eyes, and right 

across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past 

the barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest 

night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, 

burst away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the 

barge, 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, 

paused. 
There two stood arm'd, and kept the 

door ; to whom. 
All up the marble stair, tier over 

tier. 



270 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



Were added mouths that gaped, and 
eyes that ask'd 

" What is it ? " but that oarsman's 
haggard face, 

As hard and still as is the face that 
men 

Shape to their fancy's eye from broken 
rocks 

On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and 
they said, 

" He is enchanted, cannot speak — 
and she. 

Look how she sleeps — the Fairy- 
Queen, so fair! 

Yea, but how pale ! what are they ? 
flesh and blood 1 

Or come to take the King to Fairy- 
land 1 

For some do hold our Arthur cannot 
die. 

But that he passes into Fairyland." 

While thus they babbled of the 

King, fhe King 
Came girt with knights : then turn'd 

the tongueless man 
From the half-face to the full eye, 

and rose 
And pointed to the damsel, and the 

doors. 
So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percirale 
And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the 

maid ; 
And reverently they bore her into 

hall. 
Then came the fine Gawain and won- 

der'd at her, 
And Lancelot later came and mused 

at her. 
And last the Queen herself, and pitied 

her : 
But Arthur spied the letter in her 

hand, 
Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; 

this was all : 

" INIost noble lord. Sir Lancelot of 
the Lake, 

I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, 

Come, for you left me taking no fare- 
well. 

Hither, to take my last farewell of 
you. 

I loved you, and my love had no 
return. 

And therefore my true love has been 
my death. 

And therefore to our Ladj' Guinevere, 

And to all other ladies, I make moan. 

Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 

Pray for my soul thou too. Sir Lan- 
celot, 

As thou art a knight peerless." 

Thus he read ; 
And ever in the reading, lords and 
dames 



Wept, looking often from his face who 

read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at 

times. 
So touch'd were they, half-thinking 

that her lips. 
Who had devised the letter, moved 

again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to 

them all : 
" My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that 

hear, 
Know that for this most gentle 

maiden's death 
Eight heavy am I; for good she was 

and true, 
But loved me with a love beyond all 

love 
In women, whomsoever I have known. 
Yet to be loved makes not to love 

again ; 
Not at mj' years, however it hold in 

j^outh. 
I swear by truth and knighthood that 

I gave 
No cause, not willingly, for such a 

love : 
To this I call my friends in testimony, 
Her brethren, and her father, wiio 

himself 
Besought me to be plain and blunt, 

and use. 
To break her passion, some discourtesy 
Against my nature : what I could, I 

did. 
I left her and I bade her no farewell ; 
Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would 

have died, 
I might have put my wits to some 

rough use. 
And h'elp'd her from herself." 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after 

storm) 
" Ye might at least have done her so 

much grace, 
Fair lord, as would have help'd her 

from her death." 
He raised his head, their ej'es met and 

hers fell. 
He adding, 

"Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could 

not be. 
Then might she follow me thro' the 

world, she ask'd ; 
It could not be. I told her that her 

love 
Was but the flash of youth, would 

darken down 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — 

then would I, 



LANCELOT AND ELALXE. 



271 



More specially were he, slie wedded, 
poor, 

Estate them with large land and ter- 
ritory 

In mine own realm beyond the narrow 
seas, 

To keep them in all joyance : more 
tlian this 

I could not ; this she would not, and 
she died." 

He pausing, Arthur answer'd, " O 
my knight, 

It will be to thy worship, as my 
kniglit. 

And mine, as head of all our Table 
Bound, 

To see that she be buried worship- 
fully." 

So toward that shrine which then in 

all the realm 
Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly 

went 
The marshall'd Order of their Table 

Round, 
And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, 

to see. 
The maiden buried, not as one un- 
known, 
Nor meanh^, but with gorgeous obse- 
quies, 
And mass, and rolling music, like a 

queen. 
And when the knights had laid her 

comely head 
Low in the dust of half-forgotten 

kings, 
Then Arthur spake among them, 

" Let her tomb 
Be costly, and her image thereupon. 
And let the shield of Lancelot at her 

feet 
Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 
And let the story of her dolorous 

voyage 
For all true hearts be blazon'd on her 

tomb 
In letters gold and azure ! " which was 

wrought 
Thereafter ; but when now the lords 

and dames 
And people, from the high door 

streaming, brake 
Disorderly, as homeward each, the 

Queen, 
Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he 

moved apart. 
Drew near, and sigh'd in passing, 

"Lancelot, 
Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in 

love." 
He answer'd with his eyes upon the 

ground, 
" That is love's curse ; pass on, xaj 

Queen, forgiven." 



But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy 
brows, 

Approach'd him, and with full affec- 
tion said, 

"Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in 

whom I have 
Most joy and most affiance, for I 

know 
What thou hast been in battle by my 

side, 
And many a time have watch'd thee 

at the tilt 
Strike down the lusty and long prac- 
tised knight. 
And let the younger and unskill'd 

goby 
To win his honor and to make his 

name. 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a 

man 
Made to be loved ; but now I would 

to God, 
Seeing the homeless trouble in thine 

eyes. 
Thou couldst have loved this maiden, 

shaped, it seems, 
By God for thee alone, and from her 

face, 
If one may judge the living by the 

dead, 
Delicately pure and marvellously fair, 
Who might have brought thee, now a 

lonely man 
Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 
Born to the glory of thy name and 

fame, 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of 

the Lake." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, " Fair she 

was, my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights 

to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an 

eye. 
To doubt her pureness were to want a 

heart — 
Yea,, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not 

be bound." 

"Free love, so bound, were freest," 

said the King. 
" Let love be free ; free love is for 

the best : 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of 

death, 
What should be best, if not so pure a 

love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness ? yet 

thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I 

think, 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I 

know." 



272 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but 

he went, 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove, and 

watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his 

eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her 

moving down, 
Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and 

said 
Low in himself, " Ah simple heart and 

sweet, 
Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a 

love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray 

for thy soul ? 
Ay, that will I. Farewell too — now 

at last — 
Farewell, fair lily. ' Jealousy in 

love "? ' 
Not rather dead love's harsh heir, 

jealous pride ? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of 

love. 
May not your crescent fear for name 

and fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that 

wanes 1 
Why did the King dwell on my name 

to me ? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming 

a reproach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake 
Caught from his mother's arms — 

the wondrous one 
Who passes thro' the vision of the 

night — 
She chanted snatches of mysterious 

hymns 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and 

morn 
She kiss'd me saying, 'Thou art fair, 

my child. 
As a king's son,' and often in her 

arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky 

mere. 
Would she had drown'd me iu it, 

where'er it be ! 
For what am I ? what profits me my 

name 
Of greatest knight 1 I fought for it, 

and have it : 
Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, 

pain ; 
Now grown a part of me : but what 

use in it ? 
To make men worse by making my 

sin known ? 
Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming 

great 1 
Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a 

man 
Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs 

must break 



These bonds that so defame me : not 

without 
She wills it : would I, if she will'd it ? 

nay. 
Who knows 1 but if I would not, then 

may God, 
I praj^ him, send a sudden Angel down 
To seize me by the hair and bear me 

far. 
And fling me deep in that forgotten 

mere. 
Among the tumbled fragments of the 

hills." 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorse- 
ful pain, 
Not knowing he should die a holy 
man. 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 

From noiseful arms, and acts of 

prowess done 
In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, 
Whom Arthur and his knighthood 

call'd The Pure, 
Had pass'd into the silent life of 

prayer. 
Praise, fast, and alms ; and leaving 

for the covvl 
The helmet in an abbey far away 
From Camelot, there, and not long 

after, died. 

And one, a fellow-monk among 

the rest, 
Ambrosius, loved him much beyond 

the rest. 
And honor'd him, and wrought into 

his heart 
A way by love that waken'd love 

within. 
To answer that which came : and as 

they sat 
Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darken- 
ing half 
The cloisters, on a gustful April morn 
That puff'd the swaying branches into 

smoke 
Above them, ere the summer when 

he died. 
The monk Ambrosius question'd 

Percivale : 

" O brother, I have seen this yew- 
tree smoke. 

Spring after spring, for half a hun- 
dred 3'ears : 

For never have I known the world 
without, 

Nor ever stray'd beyond the pale : but 
thee, 

When first thou earnest — such a 
courtesy 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



273 



Spake tlu'o' the limbs and in the 

voice — 

I knew 
For one of those who eat in Arthur's 

hall; 
For good ye are and bad, and like to 

coins. 
Some true, some light, but every one 

of you 
Stamp'd with the image of the King ; 

and now * 
Tell me, what drove thee from the 

Table Round, 
My brother ? was it earthly passion 

crost ? " 

"Nay," said the knight; "for no 

such passion mine 
But the sweet vision of the Holy 

Grail 
Drove me from all vainglories, rival- 
ries. 
And earthly heats that spring and 

sparkle out 
Among us in the jousts, while women 

watch 
Who wins, who falls; and waste the 

spiritual strength 
Within us, better offer'd up to 

Heaven." 

To whom the monk: "The Holy 

Grail ! — I trust 
We are green in Heaven's eyes ; but 

here too much 
We moulder — as to things without I 

mean — 
Yet one of your own knights, a guest 

of ours, 
Told us of this in our refectory. 
But spake with such a sadness and so 

low 
We heard not half of what he said. 

What is it 1 
The phantom of a cup that comes 

and goes ? " 

" Nay, monk ! what phantom 1 " 

answer'd Percivale. 
" The cup, the cup itself, from which 

our Lord 
Drank at the last sad supper with his 

own. 
This, from the blessed land of Aro- 

mat — 
After the day of darkness, when the 

dead 
Went wandeHng o'er Moriah — the 

good saint 
Arimathajan Joseph, journeying 

brought 
To Glastonbury, where the winter 

thorn 
Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of 

our Lord. 



And there awhile it bode ; and if a 

man 
Could touch or see it, he was heal'd 

at once. 
By faith, of all his ills. • But then the 

times 
Grew to such evil that the holy cup 
Was caught away to Heaven, and 

disappear'd." 

To whom the monk : " From our 
old books I know 

That Joseph came of old to Glaston- 
bury, 

And there the heathen Prince, Arvi- 
ragus. 

Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to 
build ; 

And there he built with wattles from 
the marsh 

A little lonely church in days of yore. 

For so they say, these books of ours, 
but seem 

Mute of this miracle, far as I have read. 

But who first saw the holy thing to- 
day ? " 

"A woman," answer'd Percivale, 

" a nun. 
And one no further off in blood from 

me 
Than sister ; and if ever holy maid 
With knees of adoration wore the 

stone, 
A holy maid ; tho' never maiden 

glow'd. 
But that was in her earlier maiden- 
hood. 
With such a fervent flame of human 

love. 
Which being rudely blunted, glanced 

and shot 
Only to holy things ; to prayer and 

praise 
She gave herself, to fast and alms. 

And yet, 
Nun as she was, the scandal of the 

Court, 
Sin against Arthur and the Table 

Round, 
And the strange sound of an adulter- 
ous race. 
Across the iron grating of her cell 
Beat, and she pray'd and fasted all 

the more. 

" And he to whom she told her sins, 

or what 
Her all but utter whiteness held for 

sin, 
A man wellnigh a hundred winters old, 
Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, 
A legend handed down thro' five or six. 
And eacii of these a hundred winters 

old, 



274 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



From our Lord's time. And when 

King Arthur made 
His Table Hound, and all men's hearts 

became 
Clean for a season, surely he had 

thought 
Tliat now the Holy Grail would come 

again ; 
But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it 

would come, 
And heal the world of all their wicked- 
ness ! 
' Father ! ' ask'd the maiden, ' might 

it come 
To me by prayer and fasting ? ' ' Nay,' 

said he, 
' I know not, for thy heart is pure as 

snow.' 
And so she pray'd and fasted, till the 

sun 
Shone, and the wind blew, thro' her, 

and I thought 
She might have risen and floated when 

I saw her. 

"For on a day she sent to speak 

with me. 
And when she came to speak, behold 

her e3^es 
Beyond my knowing of them, beauti- 
ful. 
Beyond all knowing of them, won- 
derful, 
Beautiful in the light of holiness. 
And ' O my brother Percivale,' she 

said, 
' Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy 

Grail: 
For, waked at dead of night, I heard 

a sound 
As of a silver horn from o'er the hills 
Blown, and I thought, " It is not 

Arthur's use 
To hunt by moonlight ; " and the slen- 
der sound 
As from a distance beyond distance 

grew 
Coming upon me — O never harp nor 

horn, 
Nor aught we blow with breath, or 

touch with hand, 
Was like that music as it came ; and 

tlien 
Stream'd thro' my cell a cold and 

silver beam, 
And down the long beam stole the 

Holy Grail, 
Bose-red with beatings in it, as if 

alive, 
Till all the white walls of my cell were 

dyed 
With rosy colors leaping on the wall ; 
And then the music faded, and the 

Grail 
Past, and the beam decaj^'d, and from 

the walls 



The rosy quiverings died into the 

night. 
So now the Holy Thing is here again 
Among us, brother, fast thou too and 

pray, 
And tell thy brother knights to fast 

and pray. 
That so perchance the vision may be 

seen 
By thee and those, and all the world 

be heal'd.' 

" Then leaving the pale nun, I spake 
of this 

To all men ; and myself fasted and 
pray'd 

Alwaj's, and many among us many a 
week 

Fasted and pray'd even to the utter- 
most, 

Expectant of the wonder that would 
be. 

" And one there was among us, ever 

moved 
Among us in white armor, Galahad. 
' God make thee good as thou art 

beautiful,' 
Said Artliur, when he dubb'd him 

knight ; and none, 
In so 3'oung youth, was ever made a 

knight 
Till Galahad ; and this Galahad, when 

he heard 
My sister's vision, fill'd me with amaze; 
His eyes became so like her own, they 

seem'd 
Hers, and himself her brother more 

than I. 

" Sister or brother none had he ; but 

some 
Call'd him a son of Ljincelot, and some 

said 
Begotten by enchantment — chatterers 

they, 
Life birds of passage piping up and 

down. 
That gape for flies — we know not 

whence they come ; 
For when was Lancelot wanderingly 

lewd ■? 

"But she, the wan sweet maiden, 

shore away 
Clean from her forehead all that 

wealth of hair 
Which made a silken mat-work for 

her feet ; 
And out of this she plaited broad and 

long 
A strong sword-belt, and wove with 

silver thread 
And crimson in the belt a strange 

device, 
A crimson grail within a silver beam ; 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



275 



And saw the bright boy-knight, and 

bound it on him, 
Saying, ' My knight, my love, my 

knight of heaven, 
O thou, my love, whose love is one 

with mine, 
I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind 

my belt. 
Go forth, for thou shalt see what I 

have seen, 
And break thro' all, till one will crown 

thee king 
Far in the spiritual city : ' and as she 

simke 
She sent her deathless passion in her 

eyes 
Thro' him, and made him hers, and 

laid her mind 
On him, and he believed in her belief. 

"Then came a year of miracle: 
brother. 

In our great hall there stood a vacant 
chair, 

Fashion'd by Merlin ere he past away, 

And carven with strange figures ; and 
in and out 

The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll 

Of letters in a tongue no man could 
read. 

And Merlin call'd it ' The Siege peril- 
ous.' 

Perilous for good and ill ; ' for there,' 
he said, 

' No man could sit but he should lose 
himself : ' 

And once by misadvertence Merlin sat 

In his own chair, and so was lost ; but 
he, 

Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's 
doom, 

Cried, ' If I lose myself, I save my- 
self!' 

" Tlien on a summer night it came 
to pass, 

Wliile the great banquet lay along the 
hall. 

That Galahad would sit down in Mer- 
lin's chair. 

" And all at once, as there we sat, 
we heard 

A cracking and a riving of the roofs. 

And rending, and a blast, and over- 
head 

Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. 

And in the blast there smote along the 
hall 

A beam of light seven times more 
clear than day : 

And down the long beam stole the 
Holy Grail 

All over cover'd with a luminous cloud, 

And none might see who bare it, and 
it past. 



But every knight beheld his fellow's 

face 
As in a glory, and all the knights arose. 
And staring each at other like dumb 

men 
Stood, till I found a voice and sware 

a vow. 

"I sware a vow before them all, 

that I, 
Because I had not seen the Grail, would 

ride 
A twelvemonth and a day in quest of 

it. 
Until I found and saw it, as the nun 
My sister saw it ; and Galahad sware 

the vow, 
And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's 

cousin, sware. 
And Lancelot sware, and many among 

the kniglits. 
And Gawain sware, and louder than 

the rest." 

Then spake the monk Ambrosius, 
asking him, 
" What said the King ? Did Arthur 
take the vow ? " 

" Nay, for my lord," said Percivale, 

" the King, 
Was not in hall : for early that same 

day, 
Scaped thro' a cavern from a bandit 

hold, 
An outraged maiden sprang into tlie 

hall 
Crying on help : for all her shining 

hair 
Was smear'd with earth, and either 

milky arm 
Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and 

all she wore 
Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is 

torn 
In tempest: so the King arose and 

went 
To smoke the scandalous hive of those 

wild bees 
That made such honey in his realm. 

Howbeit 
Some little of this marvel he too saw, 
Returning o'er the plain that then 

began 
To darken under Camelot ; whence the 

King 
Look'd up, calling aloud, ' Lo, there ! 

the roofs 
Of our great hall are roU'd in thunder- 
smoke ! 
Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by 

the bolt.' 
For dear to Arthur was that hall of 

ours. 
As having there so oft with all his 

knights 



276 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



Feasted, and as the stateliest under 
heaven. 

" brother, had you known our 

mighty hall, 
Which JVIerlin built for Arthur long 

ago ! 
For all the sacred mount of Camelot, 
And all the dim rich city, roof by 

roof. 
Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, 
By grove, and garden-lawn, and rush- 
ing brook, 
Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin 

built. 
And four great zones of sculpture, set 

betwixt 
With many a mystic symbol, gird the 

hall : 
And in the lowest beasts are slaying 

men, 
And in the second men are slaying 

beasts, 
And on the third are warriors, perfect 

men, 
And on the fourth are men with grow- 
ing wings, 
And over all one statue in the mould 
Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a 

crown, 
And peak'd wings pointed to the 

Northern Star. 
And eastward fronts the statue, and 

the crown 
And both the wings are made of gold, 

and flame 
At sunrise till the people in far 

fields, 
Wasted so often by the heathen 

hordes, 
Behold it, crying, ' We have still a 

King.' 

" And, brother, had you known our 

hall within. 
Broader and higher than any in all 

the lands ! 
Where twelve great windows blazon 

Arthur's wars, 
And all the light that falls upon the 

board 
Streams thro' the twelve great battles 

of our King. 
Nay, one there is, and at the eastern 

end, 
Wealthy with wandering lines of 

mount and mere, 
Where Arthur finds the brand Excali- 

bur. 
And also one to the west, and counter 

to it, 
And blank : and who shall blazon it ? 

when and how ? — 
there, perchance, when all our wars 

are done, 



The brand Excalibur will be cast 
away. 

" So to this hall full quickly rode 

the King, 
In horror lest the work by INIerlin 

wrought. 
Dreamlike, should on the sudden van- 
ish, wrapt 
In unremorseful folds of rolling fire. 
And in he rode, and up I glanced, and 

saw 
The golden dragon sparkling over all : 
And many of those who burnt the 

hold, their arms 
Hack'd, and their foreheads grimed 

with smoke, and sear'd, 
FoUow'd, and in among bright faces, 

ours. 
Full of the vision, prest : and then the 

King 
Spake to me, being nearest, 'Perci- 

vale,' 
(Because the hall was all in tumult — 

some 
Vowing, and some protesting), 'what 

is this ? ' 

" O brother, when I told him what 

had chanced. 
My sister's vision, and the rest, Jiis 

face 
Darken'd, as I have seen it more than 

once. 
When some brave deed seem'd to be 

done in vain. 
Darken ; and ' Woe is me, my knights,' 

he cried, 
' Had I been here, ye had not sworn 

the vow.' 
Bold was mine answer, ' Had thyself 

been here. 
My King, thou wouldst have sworn.' 

' Yea, yea,' said he, 
' Art thou so bold and hast not seen 

the Grail 1 ' 

" ' Nay, lord, I heard the sound, I 

saw the light, 
But since I did not see the Holy 

Thing, 
I sware a vow to follow it till I saw.' 

" Then when he ask'd us, knight by 

knight, if any 
Had seen it, all their answers were as 

one: 
'Nay, lord, and therefore have we 

sworn our vows.' 

" ' Lo now,' said Arthur, ' have ye 
seen a cloud ? 
What go ye into the wilderness to 
see? ' 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



277 



" Then Galahad on the sudden, and 
in a voice 
Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, 

call'd, 
'But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy 

Grail, 
I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry — 
" Galahad, and O Galahad, follow 
me." ' 

" ' Ah, Galahad, Galahad,' said the 

Iving, ' for such 
As thou art is the vision, not for 

these. 
Thy holy nun and thou have seen a 

sign — 
Holier is none, my Percivale, than 

she — 
A sign to maim this Order which I 

made. 
But ve, that follow but the leader's 

" bell' 
(Brother, the King was hard upon his 

knights) 
' Taliessin is our f tillest throat of song, 
And one hath sung and all the dumb 

will sing. 
Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath over- 
borne 
Five knights at once, and every 

younger knight, 
Unproven, liolds himself as Lancelot, 
Till overborne by one, he learns — and 

ye, 

What are ye ? Galahads ? — no, nor 

Percivales ' 
(For thus it pleased the King to range 

me close 
After Sir Galahad); 'na}',' said he, 

' but men 
With strength and will to right the 

wrong'd, of power 
To lay the sudden heads of violence 

flat, 
Knights that in twelve great battles 

splash'd and dyed 
The strong White Horse in his own 

heathen blood — ■ 
But one hath seen, and all the blind 

will see. 
Go, since your vows are sacred, being 

made : 
Yet — for ye know the cries of all my 

realm 
Pass thro' this hall — how often, my 

knights, 
Your places being vacant at my 

side. 
This chance of noble deeds will come 

and go 
Unchallenged, while ye follow wan- 
dering fires 
Lost in the quagmire ! Many of you, 

yea most. 
Return no more : ye think I show my- 
self 



Too dark a prophet : come now, let 

us meet 
The morrow morn once more in one 

full field 
Of gracious pastime, that once more 

the King, 
Before ye leave him for this Quest, 

may count 
The yet-unbroken strength of all his 

knights, 
Eejoicing in that Order which he 

made.' 

" So M'hen the sun broke next from 

under ground, 
All the great table of our Arthur 

closed 
And clash'd in such a tournev and so 

full, 
So man}' lances broken — never yet 
Had Camelot seen the like, since 

Arthur came ; 
And I myself and Galahad, for a 

strength 
Was in us from the A'ision, overthrow 
So many knights that all the peojile 

cried. 
And almost burst the barriers in tlieir 

heat. 
Shouting, ' Sir Galahad and Sir Per- 
civale ! ' 

"But when the next day brake 

from under ground — 
O brother, had you known our Came- 
lot, 
Built by old kings, age after age, so 

old 
The King himself had fears- that it 

would fall. 
So strange, and rich, and dim ; for 

where the roofs 
Totter'd toward each other in the 

sky, 
Met foreheads all along the street of 

those 
Who watch'd us pass ; and lower, and 

wliere the long 
Rich galleries, lady-laden, weigh'd the 

necks 
Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, 
Thicker than drops from thunder, 

showers of flowers 
Fell as we jiast; and men and boys 

astride 
On wyvern, lion, dragon, griflSn, swan, 
At all the corners, named us each by 

name. 
Calling ' God speed ! ' but in the ways 

below 
The knights and ladies wept, and rich 

and poor 
Wept, and the King himself could 

hardly speak 
For grief, and all in middle street the 

Queen, 



278 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



Who rode by Lancelot, wail'd and 

shriek'd aloud, 
' This madness has come on us for our 

sins.' 
So to the Gate of the three Queens we 

came. 
Where Arthur's wars are render'd 

mystically. 
And thence departed every one his 

way. 

" And I was lifted up in heart, and 

thought 
Of all my late-shown prowess in the 

lists. 
How my strong lance had beaten down 

the knights. 
So many and famous names ; and 

never yet 
Had heaven appear'd so blue, nor 

earth so green, 
For all my blood danced in me, and I 

knew 
That I should light upon the Holy 

Grail. 

"Thereafter, the dark warning of 
our King, 

That most of us would follow wander- 
ing fires, 

Came lilce a driving gloom across my 
mind. 

Then every evil word I had spoken 
once. 

And every evil thought I had thought 
of old, 

And every evil deed I ever did, 

^voke and cried, ' This Quest is not 
for thee.' 

And lifting up mine eyes, I found my- 
self 

Alone, and in a land of sand and 
thorns. 

And I was thirsty even vinto death ; 

And I, too, cried, ' This Quest is not 
for thee.' 

" And on I rode, and when I thought 

my thirst 
Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and 

then a brook. 
With one sharp rapid, where the crisp- 
ing white 
Play'd ever back uj^on the sloping 

wave. 
And took both ear and eye ; and o'er 

the brook 
Were apple-trees, and apples by the 

brook 
Fallen, and on the lawns. ' I will rest 

here,' 
I said, ' I am not worthy of the Quest ; ' 
But even while I drank the brook, and 

ate 
The goodly apples, all these things at 

once 



Fell into dust, and I was left alone. 
And thirsting, in a land of sand and 
thorns. 

"And then behold a woman at a 

door 
Spinning ; and fair the house whereby 

she sat. 
And kind the woman's eyes and inno- 
cent. 
And all her bearing gracious ; and she 

rose 
Opening her arms to meet me, as who 

should say, 
' Rest here ; ' but when I touch'd her, 

lo ! she, too, 
Fell into dust and nothing, and the 

house 
Became no better than a broken shed. 
And in it a dead babe ; and also this 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone. 

"And on I rode, and greater was 

my tliirst. 
Then flash'd a yellow gleam across 

the world. 
And where it smote the plowshare in 

the field, ' 
The plowman left his plowing, and 

fell down 
Before it ; where it glitter'd on her 

pail. 
The milkmaid left her milking, and 

fell down 
Before it, and I knew not why, but 

thought 
' The sun is rising,' tho' the sun had 

risen. 
Then was I ware of one that on me 

moved 
In golden armor with a crown of gold 
About a casque all jewels ; and his 

horse 
In golden armor jewell'd everywhere : 
And on the splendor came, flashing 

me blind ; 
And seem'd to me the Lord of all the 

world. 
Being so huge. But when I thought 

he meant 
To crush me, moving on me, lo ! he, 

too, 
Open'd his arms to embrace me as he 

came. 
And lip I went and touch'd him, and 

he, too. 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone 
And wearying in a land of sand and 

thorns. 

" And I rode on and found a mighty 

hill. 
And on the top, a city wail'd : tJui 

spires 
Prick'd with incredible pinnacles into 

heaven. 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



279 



And by the gateway stirr'd a crowd ; 

and these 
Cried to me climbing, ' Welcome, Per- 

civale ! 
Thou mightiest and thou purest 

among men ! ' 
And glad was I and clomb, but found 

at top 
No man, nor any voice. And thence 

I past 
Far thro' a ruinous city, and I saw 
That man had once dwelt there ; but 

there I found 
Only one man of an exceeding age. 
' Where is that goodly company,' said I, 
'That so cried out upon me 1 ' and he 

had 
Scarce any voice to answer, and yet 

gasp'd, 
' Whence and what art thou ? ' and 

even as he spoke 
Fell into dust, and disappear'd, and I 
Was left alone once more, and cried 

in grief, 
' Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself 
And touch it, it will crumble into 

dust.' 

"And thence I dropt into a lowly 

vale. 
Low as the hill was high, and where 

the vale 
Was lowest, found a chapel, and 

thereby 
A holy hermit in a hermitage. 
To whom I told my phantoms, and he 

said: 

" ' son, thou hast not true humility. 
The highest virtue, mother of them all ; 
For when the Lord of all things made 

Himself 
Naked of glory for His mortal change, 
" Take thou my robe," she said, " for 

all is thine," 
And all her form shone forth with 

sudden light 
So that the angels were amazed, and 

she 
Follow'd Him down, and like a flying 

star 
Led on the gray-hair'd wisdom of the 

east; 
But her thou hast not known: for 

what is this 
Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and 

thy sins % 
Thou hast not lost thyself to save 

thyself 
As Galahad.' When the hermit made 

an end, 
In silver armor suddenly Galahad 

shone 
Before us, and against the chapel door 
Laid lance, and enter'd, and we knelt 

in prayer. 



And there the hermit slaked my burn- 
ing thirst. 
And at the sacring of tlie mass I saw 
The holy elements alone ; but he, 
' Saw ye no more 1 I, Galahad, saw 

the Grail, 
The Holy Grail, descend upon the 

shrine : 
I saw the fiery face as of a child 
That smote itself into the bread, and 

went ; 
And hither am I come ; and never yet 
Hath what thy sister taught me first 

to see, 
This Holy Tiling, f ail'd from my side, 

nor come 
Cover'd, but moving with me night 

and day. 
Fainter by day, but always in the night 
Blood-red, and sliding down the black- 

en'd marsh 
Blood-red, and on the naked mountain 

top 
Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere 

below 
Blood-red. And in the strength of 

this I rode, 
Shattering all evil customs every- 
where. 
And past tliro' Pagan realms, and 

made them mine, 
And clash'd with Pagan hordes, and 

bore them down. 
And broke tliro' all, and in the strength 

of this 
Come victor. But my time is hard at 

hand, 
And hence I go ; and one will crown 

me king 
Far in tlie spiritual city; and come 

thou, too. 
For thou shalt see the vision when I 



" While thus he spake, his eye, 
dwelling on mine, 

Drew me, with power upon me, till I 
grew 

One with him, to believe as he be- 
lieved. 

Then, when the day began to wane, 
we went. 

"There rose a hill that none but 
man could climb, 

Scarr'd with a hundred wintry water- 
courses — 

Storm at the top, and when we gain'd 
it, storm 

Round us and death; for every mo- 
ment glanced 

His silver arms and gloom'd : so quick 
and thick 

The lightnings here and there to left 
and right 



280 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



Struck, till the dry old trunks about 

us, dead, 
Yea, rotten with a hundred years of 

death, 
Sprang into fire : and at the base we 

found 
On either hand, as far as eye could 

see, 
A great black swamp and of an evil 

smell, 
Part black, part whiten'd with the 

bones of men, 
Not to be crost, save that some ancient 

king 
Had built a way, where, link'd with 

many a bridge, 
A thousand piers ran into the great 

Sea. 
And Galahad fled along them bridge 

by bridge, 
And every bridge as quickly as he 

crost 
Sprang into fire and vanish'd, tho' I 

yearn'd 
To follow ; and thrice above him all 

the heavens 
Open'd and blazed with thunder such 

as seem'd 
Shoutings of all the sons of God : and 

first 
At once I saw him far on the great 

Sea, 
In silver-shining armor starry-clear ; 
And o'er his head the Holy Vessel 

hung 
Clothed in white samite or a luminous 

clovid. 
And with exceeding swiftness ran the 

boat, 
If boat it were — I saw not whence it 

came. 
And when the heavens open'd and 

blazed again 
Roaring, I saw him like a silver star — 
And had he set the sail, or had the 

boat 
Become a living creature clad with 

wings *? 
And o'er his head the Holy Vessel 

hung 
Redder than any rose, a joy to me, 
For now I knew the veil had been 

withdrawn. 
Then in a moment when they blazed 

again 
Opening, I saw the least of little stars 
Down on the waste, and straight 

beyond the star 
I saw the spiritual city and all her 

spires 
And gateways in a glorj' like one 

pearl — 
No larger, tho' the goal of all the 

saints — 
Strike from the sea ; and from the 

star there shot 



A rose-red sparkle to the city, and 

there 
Dwelt, and I know it was the Holy 

Grail, 
Which never eyes on earth again 

shall see. 
Then fell the floods of heaven drown- 
ing the deep. 
And how my feet recrost the death- 

ful ridge 
No memory in me lives ; but that I 

touch'd 
The chapel-doors at dawn I know ; 

and thence 
Taking my war-horse from the holy 

man, 
Glad that no phantom vext me more, 

return'd 
To whence I came, the gate of Arthur's 

wars." 



" brother," ask'd Ambrosius, — 

"for in sooth 
These ancient books — and they would 

Avin thee — teem, 
Only I find not there this Holy Grail, 
With miracles and marvels like to 

these, 
Not all unlike ; which of tentime I read. 
Who read but on my breviary with 

ease, 
Till my head swims ; and then go forth 

and pass 
Down to the little thorpe that lies so 

close. 
And almost plaster'd like a martin's 

nest 
To these old walls — and mingle with 

our folk ; 
And knowing every honest face of 

theirs 
As well as ever shepherd knew his 

sheep, 
And every homely secret in their 

hearts, 
Delight myself with gossip and old 

wives. 
And ills and aches, and teethings, 

lyings-in. 
And mirthful sayings, children of the 

place. 
That have no meaning half a league 

away : 
Or lulling random squabbles when 

they rise, 
Chafi"erings and chatterings at the 

market-cross. 
Rejoice, small man, in this small Morld 

of mine, 
Yea, even in their hens and in their 

eggs — 
brother, saving this Sir Galahad, 
Came ye on none but phantoms in 

your quest. 
No man, no woman 1 " 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



2S1 



Then Sir Percivale : 
"All men, to one so bound by such a 

vow, 
And women were as phantoms. O, 

my brother. 
Why wilt thou shame me to confess 

to thee 
How far I falter'd from my quest and 

vow? 
For after I had lain so many nights, 
A bedmate of the snail and eft and 

snake, 
In grass and burdock, I was changed 

to wan 
And meagre, and the vision had not 

come ; 
And then I chanced upon a goodly 

town 
With one great dwelling in the middle 

of it; 
Thither I made, and there was I dis- 

arm'd 
By maidens each as fair as any flower : 
But when they led me into hall, be- 
hold, 
The Princess of that castle was the 

one. 
Brother, and that one only, who had 

ever 
Made my heart leap; for when I 

moved of old 
A slender page about her father's hall. 
And she a slender maiden, all my 

heart 
Went after her with longing ; yet we 

twain 
Had never kiss'd a kiss, or vow'd a 

vow. 
And now I came upon her once 

again. 
And one had wedded her, and he was 

dead. 
And all his land and wealth and state 

were hers. 
And while I tarried, every day she 

set 
A banquet richer than the day before 
By me; for all her longing and her 

will 
Was toward me as of old ; till one 

fair morn, 
I walking to and fro beside a stream 
That flash'd across her orchard under- 
neath 
Her castle-walls, she stole upon my 

walk. 
And calling me the greatest of all 

knights. 
Embraced me, and so kiss'd me the 

first time. 
And gave herself and all her wealth 

to me. 
Then I remember'd Arthur's warning 

word, 
That most of us would follow wan- 
dering fires, 



And the Quest faded in my heart. 

Anon, 
The heads of all her people drew to 

me. 
With supplication both of knees and 

tongue : 
' We have heard of thee : thou art 

our greatest knight. 
Our Lady says it, and we well believe : 
Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us. 
And thou shalt be as Arthur in our 

land.' 
O me, my brother ! but one night my 

vow 
Burnt me within, so that I rose and 

fled, 
But wail'd and wejit, and hated mine 

own self. 
And ev'n the Holy Quest, and all but 

her; 
Then after I was join'd with Galahad 
Cared not for her, nor anything upon 

earth." 

Then said the monk, " Poor men, 

when yule is cold. 
Must be content to sit by little fires. 
And this am I, so that \q care for me 
Ever so little ; yea, and blest be 

Heaven 
That brought thee here to this poor 

house of ours 
Where all the brethren are so hard, 

to warm 
My cold heart with a friend : but O 

the pity 
To find thine own first love once 

more — to hold. 
Hold her a wealthy bride within thine 

arms, 
Or all but hold, and then — cast her 

aside, 
Foregoing all her sweetness, like a 

weed. 
For we that want the warmth of 

double life, 
We that are plagued with dreams of 

something sweet 
Beyond all sweetness in a life so 

rich, — 
Ah, blessed Lord, I speak too earthly- 
wise. 
Seeing I never stray'd beyond the cell, 
But live like an old badger in his 

earth. 
With earth about him everywhere, 

despite 
All fast and penance. Saw ye none 

beside. 
None of your knights ? " 

" Yea so," said Percivale : 
"One night my pathway swerving 

east, I saw * 

The pelican on the casque of our Sir 

Bors 



282 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



All in the middle of the rising moon : 
And toward him spurr'd, and hail'd 

him, and he me, 
And each made joy of either ; then 

he ask'd, 
' Where is he ? hast thou seen him — 

Lancelot "? — Once,' 
Said good Sir Bors, ' he dash'd across 

me — mad. 
And maddening wliat he rode : and 

when I cried, 
" Eldest tliou then so hotly on a quest 
So holy," Lancelot shouted, " Stay 

me not ! 
I have been the sluggard, and I ride 

apace. 
For now there is a lion in the way." 
So vanish'd.' 

" Then Sir Bors had ridden on 

Softly, and sorrowing for our Lan- 
celot, 

Because his former madness, once the 
talk 

And scandal of our table, had re- 
turn'd ; 

For Lancelot's kith and kin so wor- 
ship him 

That ill to him is ill to them ; to Bors 

Beyond the rest: he well had been 
content 

Not to have seen, so Lancelot might 
have seen, 

The Holy Cup of healing ; and, indeed, 

Being so clouded with his grief and 
love. 

Small heart was his after the Holy 
Quest : 

If God would send the vision, well : 
if not. 

The Quest and he were in the hands 
of Heaven. 

"And then, with small adventure 

met, Sir Bors 
Rode to the loneliest tract of all the 

realm. 
And found a people there among 

their crags. 
Our race and blood, a renmant that 

were left 
Paynim amid their circles, and the 

stones 
They pitch up straight to heaven: 

and their wise men 
Were strong in that old magic which 

can trace 
The wandering of the stars, and 

scoff'd at him 
And this high Quest as at a simple 

thing :■ 
Told him lie f oUow'd — almost Ar- 
thur's words — 
A mocking fire : ' what other fire than 

he. 



Whereby the blood beats, and the 

blossom blows, 
And the sea rolls, and all the world is 

warm'd ? ' 
And when his answer chafed them, 

the rough crowd, 
Hearing he had a difference with 

their priests. 
Seized him, and bound and plunged 

him into a cell 
Of great piled stones; and lying 

bounden there 
In darkness thro' innumerable 

hours 
He heard the hollow-ringing heavens 

sweep 
Over him till by miracle — what 

else 1 — 
Heavy as it was, a great stone slipt 

and fell. 
Such as no wind could move : and 

thro' the gap 
Glimmer'd the streaming scud : then 

came a night 
Still as the day was loud ; and thro' 

the gap 
The seven clear stars of Arthur's 

Table Kound — 
For, brother, so one night, because 

they roll 
Thro' such a round in heaven, we 

named the stars. 
Rejoicing in ourselves and in our 

King — 
And these, like bright eyes of familiar 

friends. 
In on him shone : ' And then to me, 

to me,' 
Said good Sir Bors, ' beyond all hopes 

of mine. 
Who scarce had pray'd or ask'd it for 

myself — 
Across the seven clear stars — 

grace to me — 
In color like the fingers of a hand 
Before a burning taper, the sweet 

Grail 
Glided and past,and close upon itpeal'd 
A sharp quick thunder.' Afterwards, 

a maid. 
Who kept our holy faith among her 

kin 
In secret, entering, loosed and let him 



To whom the monk: "And I re- 
member now 

That pelican on the casque : Sir Bors 
it was 

Who spake so low and sadly at our 
board ; 

And mighty reverent at our grace 
was he : 

A square-set man and honest ; and his 
eyes, 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



283 



An out-door sign of all the warmth 

within, 
Smiled with his lips — a smile beneath 

a cloud, 
But heaven had meant it for a sunny 

one : 
Ay, ay, Sir Bors, who else * But 

when ye reach'd 
The city, found ye all your knights 

return'd. 
Or was there sooth in Arthur's proph- 
ecy, 
Tell me, and what said each, and 

wliat the Iving ? " 

Then answer'd Percivale : " And 

that can I, 
Brother, and truly; since the living 

words 
Of so great men as Lancelot and our 

King 
Pass not from door to door and out 

again, 
But sit within the house. O, when we 

reach'd 
The city, our horses stumbling as 

they trode 
On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, 
Crack'd basilisks, and splinter'd cock- 
atrices. 
And shatter'd talbots, which had left 

the stones 
Raw, that they fell from, brought us 

to the hall. 

" And there sat Arthur on the dais- 
throne. 
And those that had gone out upon the 

Quest, 
Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of 

them. 
And those that had not, stood before 

the King, 
Who, when he saw me, rose, and bade 

me hail. 
Saying, ' A welfare in thine eye re- 
proves 
(Jur fear of some disastrous chance 

for thee 
On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding 

ford. 
So fierce a gale made havoc here of 

late 
Among the strange devices of our 

kings ; 
Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall 

of ours. 
And from the statue Merlin moulded 

for us 
Half-wrench'd a golden wing; but 

now — the Quest, 
This vision — hast thou seen the Holy 

Cup, 
That Joseph brought of old to Glas- 

ton])urv ; " 



■ " So when I told him all thyself 

hast heard, 
Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt re- 
solve 
To pass away into the quiet life. 
He answer'd not, but, sharply turn- 
ing, ask'd 
Of Gawain, ' Gawain, was this Quest 

for thee ? ' 
" ' Nay, lord,' said Gawain, ' not for 

sucli as I. 
Therefore I communed with a saintly 

man, 
Who made me sure the Quest was not 

for me ; 
For I was much awearied of the 

Quest : 
But found a silk pavilion in a field. 
And merry maidens in it; and then 

this gale 
Tore my pavilion from the tcnting- 

pin. 
And blew my merry maidens all 

about 
With all discomfort ; yea, and but for 

this, 
My twelvemonth and a day were 

pleasant to me.' 

" He ceased ; and Arthur turn'd to 

whom at first 
He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, 

push'd 
Athwart the throng to Lancelot, 

caught his hand. 
Held it, and there, half-hidden by him, 

stood. 
Until the King espied him, saying to 

him, 
' Hail, Bors ! if ever loyal man and 

true 
Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail ; ' 

and Bors, 
' Ask me not, for I may not speak of 

it: 
I saw it ; ' and the tears were in his 

eyes. 

"Then there remain'd but Lance- 
lot, for the rest 

Spake but of sundry perils in the 
storm ; 

Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy 
Writ, 

Our Arthur kept his best until the 
last ; 

'Thou, too, my Lancelot,' ask'd the 
King, ' my friend. 

Our mightiest, hath this Quest avail'd 
for thee 1 ' 

"'Our mightiest!' answer'd Lance- 
lot, with a groan ; 
' King ! ' — and when he paused, 
methought I sjiied 



284 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



A dying fire of madness in his eyes — 
' King, my friend, if friend of thine 

I be. 
Happier are those that welter in tlieir 

sin. 
Swine in tlie mud, that cannot see for 

slime, 
Slime of the ditch : but in me lived a 

sin 
So strange, of such a kind, that all of 

pure, 
Noble, and knightly in me twined 

and clung 
Round that one sin, until the whole- 
some flower 
And poisonous grew together, each as 

each. 
Not to be pluck'd asunder ; and when 

thy knights 
Sware, I sware with them only in the 

hope 
That could I touch or see the Holy 

Grail 
They might be pluck'd asunder. Then 

I spake 
To one most holy saint, Avho wept and 

said. 
That save they could be pluck'd 

asunder, all 
My quest were but in vain ; to whom 

I vow'd 
That I would work according as he 

will'd. 
And forth I wont, and while I yearn'd 

and strove 
To tear the twain asunder in my 

heart. 
My madness came upon me as of old. 
And whipt me into waste fields far 

away ; 
There was I beaten down by little 

men, 
Mean knights, to whom the moving 

of my sword 
And shadow of my spear had been 

enow 
To scare them from me once ; and 

then I came 
All in my folly to the naked shore, 
" Wide flats, wliere nothing but coarse 

grasses grew ; 
But such a blast, my King, began to 

blow. 
So loud a blast along the shore and 

sea. 
Ye could not hear the waters for the 

blast, 
Tho' heapt in mounds and ridges all 

the sea 
Drove like a cataract, and all tlie sand 
Swept like a river, and the clouded 

heavens 
AYcre shaken with the motion and the 

sound. 
And blackening in the sea-foam 

sway'd a boat, 



Half-swallow'd in it, anclior'd with a 

chain ; 
And in my madness to myself I said, 
" I will embark and I will lose myself, 
And in the great sea wash away my 

sin." 
I burst the chain, I sprang into the 

boat. 
Seven days I drove along the dreary 

deep, 
And with me drove the moon and a i ! 

the stars ; 
And the wind fell, and on the seventii 

night 
I heard the shingle grinding in tiie 

surge. 
And felt the boat shock earth, and 

looking up, 
Behold, the enchanted toMers of Car- 

bonek, 
A castle like a rock upon a rock. 
With chasm-like jjortals open to the 

sea, 
And steps that met the breaker ! tliere 

was none 
Stood near it but a lion on each side 
That kept the entry, and the moon 

was full. 
Then from the boat I leapt, and up 

the stairs. 
There drew mj' sword. With sudden- 
flaring manes 
Those two great beasts rose upright 

like a man, 
Each gript a shoulder, and I stood 

between ; 
And, when I would have smitten 

them, heard a voice, 
" Doubt not, go forward ; if thou 

doubt, the beasts 
Will tear thee piecemeal." Then with 

violence 
The sword was dash'd from out my 

hand, and fell. 
And up into the sounding hall I past : 
But nothing in the sounding hall I 

saw. 
No bench nor table, painting on the 

wall 
Or shield of knight ; only the rounded 

moon 
Thro' the tall oriel on the rolling sea. 
But always in the quiet house I heard, 
Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark. 
A sweet voice singing in the topmost 

tower 
To the eastward : up I climb'd a thou- 
sand stejjs 
With pain : as in a dream I seem'd to 

climb 
For ever : at the last I reach'd a door, 
A light was in the crannies, and I 

heard, 
" Glory and joy and honor to our 

Lord 
And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail." 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



285 



Then in my madness I essay 'd the 

door ; 
It gave ; and thro' a stormy glare, a 

heat 
As from a seventimes-heated furnace, 

I, 
Bhisted and burnt, and blinded as I 

was, 
With such a fierceness that I swoon'd 

away — 
O, yet m»thought I saw the Holy 

Grail, 
All pall'd in crimson samite, and 

around 
Great angels, awful shapes, and wings 

and eyes. 
And but for all my madness and my 

sin, 
And then my swooning, I had sworn 

I saw 
That which I saw; but what I saw 

was veil'd 
And cover'd ; and this Quest was not 

for me.' 

" So speaking, and here ceasing' 

Lancelot left 
The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain 

— nay. 
Brother, I need not tell thee foolish 

words, — 
A reckless and irreverent knight was 

he, 
Now bolden'd by the silence of his 

King, — 
Well, I tell thee: '0 King, my 

liege,' he said, 
' Hath Gawain fail'd in any quest of 

thine ? 
When have I stinted stroke in fough- 

ten field ? 
But as for thine, my good friend 

Percivale, 
Thy holy nun and thou have driven 

men mad. 
Yea, made our mightiest madder than 

our least. 
But by mine eyes and by mine ears I 

swear, 
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed 

cat. 
And thrice as blind as any noonday 

owl. 
To holy virgins in their ecstasies. 
Henceforward." 

" ' Deafer,' said the blameless 

King, 
' Gawain, and blinder unto holy 

things 
Hope not to make thyself by idle 

vows, 
Being too blind to have desire to see. 
But if indeed there came a sign from 

heaven. 



Blessed are Bors, Lancelot and Per- 
civale, 

For these have seen according to 
their sight. 

For every fiery prophet in old times, 

And all the sacred madness of the 
bard. 

When God make music thro' them, 
could but speak 

His music by the framework and the 
chord ; 

And as ye saw it ye have spoken 
truth. 

" ' Nay — but thou errest, Lancelot : 

never yet 
Could all of true and noble in knight 

and man 
Twine roimd one sin, whatever it 

might be. 
With such a closeness, but apart there 

grew. 
Save that he were the swine thou 

spakest of. 
Some root of knighthood and pure 

nobleness ; 
Whereto see thou, that it may bear 

its flower. 

" ' And spake I not too truly, my 

knights ? 
Was I too dark a prophet when I said 
To those who went upon the Holy 

Quest, 
That most of them would follow 

wandering fires, 
Lost in the quagmire 1 — lost to me 

and gone. 
And left me gazing at a barren board. 
And a lean Order — scarce return'd a 

tithe — 
And out of those to whom the vision 

came 
My greatest hardly will believe he 

saw ; 
Another hath beheld it afar off. 
And leaving . human wrongs to right 

themselves. 
Cares but to pass into the silent life. 
And one hath had the vision face to 

face. 
And now his chair desires him here 

in vain. 
However they may crown him other- 
where. 

" ' And some among you held, that 

if the King 
Had seen the sight he would have 

sworn the vow : 
Not easily, seeing that the King must 

guard 
That which he rules, and is but as the 

hind 
To whom a space of land is given to 

plow. 



286 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



Who may not wander from the allot- 
ted field 

Before his work be done ; but, being 
done, 

Let visions of the night or of the 
day 

Come, as they will; and many a time 
they come, 

Until this earth he walks on seems 
not earth. 

This light that strikes his eyeball is 
not light, 

This air that smites his forehead is 
not air 

But vision — yea, his very hand and 
foot — 

In moments when he feels he cannot 
die, 

And knows himself no vision to him- 
self, 

Nor the high God a vision, nor that 
One 

Who rose again : ye have seen what 
ye have seen.' 

" So spake the King : I knew not all 
he meant." 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 

King Arthur made new knights to 

fill the gap 
Left by the Holy- Quest ; and as he 

sat 
In the hall at old Caerleon, the high 

doors 
Were softly sunder' d, and thro' these 

a youth, 
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the 

fields 
Past, and the sunshine came along 

with him. 

" Make me thy knight, because I 

know, Sir King, 
All that belongs to knighthood, and I 

love." 
Such was his cry : for having heard 

the King 
Had let proclaim a tournament — the 

prize 
A golden circlet and a knightly sword. 
Full fain had Pelleas for his lady 

won 
The golden circlet, for himself the 

sword : 
And there were those who knew him 

near the King, 
And promised for him : and Arthur 

made him knight. 

And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of 
the isles — 
But lately come to his inheritance. 



And lord of many a barren isle was 

he — 
Riding at noon, a day or twain be- 
fore. 
Across the forest call'd of Dean, to 

find 
Caerleon and the King, had felt the 

sun 
Beat like a strong knight on his 

helm, and reel'd 
Almost to falling from his horse ; but 

saw 
Near him a mound of even-sloping 

side, 
Whereon a hundred stately beeches 

grew. 
And here and there great hollies under 

them ; 
But for a mile all round was open 

space. 
And fern and heath : and slowly Pel- 
leas drew 
To that dim day, then binding his 

good horse 
To a tree, cast himself down ; and as 

he lay 
At random looking over the brown 

earth 
Thro' that green-glooming twilight of 

the grove, 
It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern 

without 
Burnt as a living fire of emeralds, 
So that his eyes were dazzled looking 

at it. 
Then o'er it crost the dimness of a 

cloud 
Floating, and once the shadow of a 

bird 
Flying, and then a fawn ; and his 

eyes closed. 
And since he loved all maidens, but 

no maid 
In special, half-awake he whisper'd, 

" Where ? 
O where % I love thee, tho' I know 

thee not. 
For fair thou art and pure as Guine- 
vere, 
And I will make thee with my spear 

and sword 
As famous — O my Queen, my Guine- 
vere, 
For I will be thine Arthur when Ave 

meet." 

Suddenlv waken'd with a sound of 

talk 
And laughter at the limit of the wood. 
And glancing thro' the hoary boles, 

he saw. 
Strange as to some old prophet might 

have seem'd 
• A vision hovering on a sea of fire, 
Damsels in divers colors like the cloud 
Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



2S7 



(Jn horses, and the horses richly trapt 
Breast-high in that bright line of 

bracken stood : 
And all the damsels talk'd confusedly, 
And one was pointing this way, and 

one that, 
Because the way was lost. 

And Pelleas rose, 
And loosed his horse, and led him to 

the light. 
There she that seem'd the chief among 

them said, 
" In happy time, behold our pilot-star ! 
Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we 

ride, 
Arm'd as ye see, to tilt against the 

knights 
There at Caerleon, but have lost orr 

way : 
To riglit ? to left ? straight forward ? 

back again ? 
Which 1 tell us quickly." 

And Pelleas gazing thought, 
" Is Guinevere herself so beautiful ? " 
For large her violet ej^es look'd, and 

her bloom 
A rosy dawn kindled in stainless 

heavens, 
And round her limbs, mature in 

womanhood ; 
And slender was her hand and small 

her shape ; 
Andbutfor those large eyes, the haunts 

of scorn, 
She might have seem'd a toy to trifle 

with. 
And pass and care no more. But 

while he gazed 
The beauty of her flesh abash'd tlie 

boy, 
As tho' it were tlie beauty of her soul : 
For as the base man, judging of the 

good, 
Puts his own baseness in him by 

default 
Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend 
All the young beauty of his own soul 

to hers, 
Believing her; and when she spake 

to him, 
Stammer'd, and could not make her a 

reply. 
For out of the waste islands had he 

come. 
Where saving his own sisters he had 

known 
Scarce any but the women of his isles, 
Rough wives, that laugh'd and 

scream'd against the gulls, 
Makers of nets, and living from the 

sea. 

Then with a slow smile turn'd the 
lady round 



And look'd upon her people ; and as 

when 
A stone is flung into some sleeping 

tarn. 
The circle widens till it lip the marge, 
Spread the slow smile thro' all her 

company. 
Three knights were thereamong ; and 

they too smiled, 
Scorning him ; for the lady was 

Ettarre, 
And she was a great lady in her land. 

Again she said, " O wild and of tlie 

woods, 
Knowest thou not the fashion of our 

speech ? 
Or have the Heavens but given thee 

a fair face, 
Lacking a tongue 1 " 

" damsel," answer'd he, 
" I woke from dreams ; and coming 

out of gloom 
Was dazzled by the sudden light, and 

crave 
Pardon : but will ye to Caerleon ? I 
Go likewise : shall I lead you to the 

King ? " 

" Lead then," she said ; and thro' 

the woods they went. 
And while they rode, the meaning in 

his ej'es, 
His tenderness of manner, and chaste 

awe. 
His broken utterances and bashful- 

ness. 
Were all a burthen to her, and in her 

heart 
She mutter'd, " I have lighted on a 

fool, 
Eaw, yet so stale ! " But since her 

mind was bent 
On hearing, after trumpet blown, her 

name 
And title, " Queen of Beauty," in the 

lists 
Cried — and beholding him so strong, 

she thought 
That peradventure he will fight for 

me, 
And win the circlet : therefore flatter'd 

him. 
Being so gracious, that he wellnigh 

deem'd 
His wish by hers was echo'd ; and her 

knights 
And all her damsels too were gracious 

to him, 
For she was a great lady. 

And when they reach'd 
Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, 

she, 
Taking his hand, " O the strong hand," 

she said, 



288 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



" See ! look at mine ! but wilt thou 

fight for me, 
And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas, 
That I may love thee ? " 

Then his helpless heart 
Leapt, and he cried, " Ay ! wilt thou 

if I win ? " 
" Ay, that will I," she answer'd, and 

she laugh'd, 
And straitly nipt the hand, and flung 

it from her ; 
Then glanced askew at those three 

knights of hers, 
Till all her ladies laugh'd along with 

her. 

" O happy world," thought Pelleas, 

"all, meseems. 
Are happy ; I the happiest of them 

all." 
Nor slept that night for pleasure in 

his blood, 
And green wood-ways, and eyes among 

the leaves ; 
Then being on the morrow knighted, 

sware 
To love one only. And as he came 
* away, 

The men who met him rounded on 

their heels 
And wonder'd after him, because his 

face 
Shone like the countenance of a priest 

of old 
Against the flame about a sacrifice 
Kindled by fire from heaven : so glad 

was he. 

Then Arthur made vast banquets, 
and strange knights 

From the four winds came in : and 
each one sat, 

Tho' served with choice from air, land, 
stream, and sea, 

Oft in mid-banquet measuring with 
his eyes 

His neighbor's make and might : and 
Pelleas look'd 

Noble among the noble, for he dream'd 

His lady loved him, and he knew him- 
self 

Loved of the King : and him his new- 
made knight 

Worshipt, whose lightest whisper 
moved him more 

Than all the ranged reasons of the 
world. 

Then blush'd and brake the morn- 
ing of the jousts. 

And this was call'd " The Tournament 
of Youth : " 

For Arthur, lovmg his young knight, 
withiield 



His older and his mightier from the 

lists. 
That Pelleas might obtain his lady's 

love, 
According to her promise, and remain 
Lord of the tourney. And Arthur 

had the jousts 
Down in the flat field by the shore of 

Usk 
Holden : the gilded parapets were 

crown'd 
With faces, and the great tower fiU'd 

with eyes 
Up to the summit, and the trumpets 

blew. 
There all day long Sir Pelleas kept 

the field 
With honor : so by that strong hand 

of his 
The sword and golden circlet were 

achieved. 

Then rang the shout his lady loved : 

the heat 
Of pride and glory fired her face ; her 

eye 
Sparkled ; she caught the circlet from 

his lance, 
And there before the people crown'd 

herself : 
So for the last time she was gracious 

to him. 

Then at Caerleon for a space — her 

look 
Bright for all others, cloudier on her 

knight — 
Linger'd Ettarre : and seeing Pelleas 

droop. 
Said Guinevere, " We marvel at thee 

much, 

damsel, wearing this unsunny face 
To him who won thee glory ! " And 

she said, 

" Had ye not held your Lancelot in 
your bower. 

My Queen, he had not won." Where- 
at the Queen, 

As one whose foot is bitten by an ant. 

Glanced down upon her, turn'd and 
went her way. 

But after, when her damsels, and 

herself, 
And those three knights all set their 

faces home. 
Sir Pelleas follow'd. She that saw 

him cried, 
"Damsels — and yet I should be 

shamed to say it — 

1 cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back 
Among yourselves. Would rather 

that we had 
Some rough old knight who knew the 
worldly way. 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



2S9 



Albeit grizzliei" tlian a Lear, to ride 
And jest with : take him to you, keep 

him off, 
And pamper him with papmeat, if ye 

will, 
Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep, 
Such as the wholesome mothers tell 

their boys. 
Nay, should ye try him with a merry 

one 
To find his mettle, good : and if he fly 

us. 
Small matter ! let him." This her 

damsels heard, 
And mindful of her small and cruel 

hand, 
Thej'^, closing round him thro' the 

journey home. 
Acted her hest, and always from her 

side 
Restrain'd him with all manner of 

device, 
So that he could not come to speech 

with her. 
And when she gain'd her castle, up- 

sprang the bridge, 
Down rang the grate of iron thro' the 

groove, 
And he was left alone in open field. 

"These be the ways of ladies," 

Pelleas thouglit, 
" To those who love them, trials of 

our faith. 
Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, 
For loyal to the uttermost am I." 
So made his moan ; and, darkness 

falling, sought 
A i)riory not far off, there lodged, but 

rose 
With morning every day, and, moist 

or dry, 
FuU-arm'd upon his charger all day 

long 
Sat by the walls, and no one open'd to 

him. 

And this persistence turn'd her 

scorn to wrath. 
Then calling her three knights, she 

charged them, " Out ! 
And drive him from the walls." And 

out they came, 
But Pelleas overthrew them as they 

dash'd 
Against him one by one ; and these 

return'd. 
But still he kept his watch beneath 

the wall. 

Thereon her wrath became a hate ; 

and once, 
A week beyond, while walking on the 

walls 
With her three knights, she pointed 

downward, " Look, 



He haunts me — 1 cannot breathe — 

besieges me; 
Down ! strike him ! put my hate into 

your strokes. 
And drive him from my walls." And 

down they went. 
And Pelleas overthrew them one by 

one ; 
And from the tower above him cried 

Ettarre, 
" Bind him, and bring him in." 

He heard her voice ; 

Then let the strong hand, which had 
overtlirown i 

Her minion-knights, by those he over- 
threw 

Be bounden straight, and so they 
brought him in. 

Then when he came before Ettarre, 

the sight 
Of her rich beauty made him at one 

glance 
More bondsman in his heart than in 

his bonds. 
Yet with good cheer he spake, " Be- 
hold me. Lady, 
A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will ; 
And if thou keep nie in thy donjon 

here 
Content am I so that I see thy face 
But once a day : for I have sworn my 

vows. 
And thovi hast given thy promise, and 

I know 
That all these pains are trials of my 

faith, 
And that thyself, when thou hast seen 

me strain'd 
And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length 
Yield me thy love and know me for 

thy knight." 

Then she began to rail so bitterly. 
With all her damsels, he was stricken 

mute ; 
But when she mock'd his vows and 

the great King, 
Lighted on words : " For pity of thine 

own self. 
Peace, Lady, peace : is he not thine 

and mine % " 
" Thou fool," she said, " I never heard 

his voice 
But long'd to break away. Unbind 

liim now. 
And thrust him out of doors; for save 

lie be 
Fool to the midmost marrow of his 

bones. 
He will return no more." And those, 

her three, 
Laugh'd, and unbound, and thrust him 

from the gate. 



290 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



And after this, a week beyond, again 
She call'd them, saying, " There he 

watches yet. 
There like a dog before his master's 

door! 
Kick'd, he returns : do ye not hate 

him, ye ? 
Ye know j^ourselves: how can j'e bide 

at jjeace, 
Affronted with Iiis fulsome innocence ? 
Are ye but creatures of the board and 

bed. 
No men to strike ? Fall on him all at 

once. 
And if ye slay him I reck not : if ye fail, 
Give ye the slave mine order to be 

bound. 
Bind him as heretofore, and bring him 

in: 
It may be ye shall slay him in his 

bonds." 

She spake ; and at her will they 

couch'd their spears, 
Tliree against one : and Gawain pass- 
ing by, 
Bound upon solitary adventure, saw 
Low down beneath the sliadow of 

those towers 
A villany, three to one : and thro' his 

heart 
The fire of honor and all noble deeds 
Flash'd, and lie call'd, " I strike ujjon 

tliy side — 
The caitiffs ! " " Nay," said Pelleas, 

" but forbear ; 
He needs no aid who doth his lady's 

will." 

So Gawain, looking at the villany 

done, 
Forebore, but in his heat and eagerness 
Trembled and quiver'd, as the dog, 

withheld 
A moment from the vermin that he 

sees 
Before him, shivers, ere he springs 

and kills. 

And Pelleas overthrew them, one to 

three ; 
And they rose up, and bound, and 

brought him in. 
Then first lier anger, leaving Pelleas, 

burn'd 
Full on her knights in many an evil 

name 
Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten 

hound : 
" Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit 

to touch; 
Far less to bind, your victor, and 

thrust him out. 
And let who will release him from his 

bonds. 



And if he comes again " — there she 
brake short ; 

And Pelleas answer'd, " Lady, for in- 
deed 

I loved you and I deem'd you beauti- 
ful, 

I cannot brook to see your beauty 
marr'd 

Thro' evil spite : and if ye love me not, 

I cannot bear to dream you so for- 
sworn : 

I had liefer ye were worthy of my 
love. 

Than to be loved again of you — fare- 
well ; 

And tho' ye kill my hope, not yet my 
love. 

Vex not yourself : ye will not see me 
more." 

Wliile thus he spake, she gazed 

upon tlie man 
Of princely bearing, tho' in bonds, 

and thought, 
" Why have I push'd him from me ? 

this man loves. 
If love there be : yet him I loved not. 

Why ? 
I deem'd him fool ? yea, so *? or that 

in liim 
A something — was it nobler than my- 
self ? — 
Seem'd ni}' reproach ? He is not of 

my kind. 
He could not love me, did he know me 

well. 
Nay, let him go — and quickly." And 

her knights 
Laugh'd not, but thrust him bounden 

out of door. 

Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed 

him from his bonds, 
And flung them o'er tlie walls ; and 

afterward. 
Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's 

"Faith of my body," he said, "and 

art thou not — 
Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur 

made 
Knight of his table ; yea and he that 

won 
The circlet ? wherefore hast thou so 

defamed 
Thy brotherhood in me and all the 

rest, 
As let these caitiffs on thee work their 

will ? " 

And Pelleas answer'd, " O, their 

wills are hers 
For whom I won the circlet ; and 

mine, hers, 
Thus to be bounden, so to see her 

face, 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



291 



Marr'd tho'it be vvitli spite and mock- 
ery now. 

Other than when I found her in the 
woods ; 

And the' she hath me bounden but in 
spite, 

And all to tlout me, wiien they bring 
me in. 

Let me be bounden, I shall see her 
face ; 

Else must I die thro' mine unhappi- 
ness." 

And GaM'ain answer'd kindly tho' 

in scorn, 
"Why, let my lady bind me if she 

will, 
And let my lady beat me if she will : 
But an she send her delegate to thrall 
These fighting hands of mine — Christ 

kill me then 
But I will slice him handless b}' the 

wrist. 
And let my lady sear the stump for 

liim, 
Howl as he may. But hold me for 

your friend : 
Come, ye know nothing : here I pledge 

my troth, 
Yea, by the honor of the Table Round, 
I will be leal to thee and work thy 

work. 
And tame thy jailing princess to 

thine hand. 
Lend me thine horse and arms, and I 

will say 
That I have slain thee. She will let 

me in 
To hear the manner of thy fight and 

fall ; 
Then, when I come within her coun- 
sels, then 
From prime to vespers will I chant 

thy praise 
As prowest knight and truest lover, 

more 
Than any have sung thee living, till 

she long 
To have thee back in lustj' life again. 
Not to be bound, save by white bonds 

and warm, 
Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now 

thy horse 
And armor: let me go: be comforted: 
Give me three days to melt her fancy, 

and hope 
The third night hence will bring thee 

news of gold." 

Then Pelleas lent his horse and all 

his arms, 
Saving the goodly sword, his prize, 

and took 
Gawain's, and said, " Betray me not, 

but lielj) — 



Art thou not he whom men call light- 
of-love ? " 

" Ay," said Gawain, " for women be 
so light." 

Then bounded forward to the castle 
walls, 

And raised a bugle hanging from liis 
neck. 

And Minded it, and that so musically 

That all the old echoes hidden in the 
wall 

Rang out like hollow woods at hunt- 
ing-tide. 

Up ran a score of damsels to the 

tower ; 
"Avaunt," they cried, " our lady loves 

thee not." 
But Gawain lifting up his vizor said, 
"Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur's 

court, 
And I have slain this Pelleas whom 

ye hate : 
Behold his horse and armor. Open 

gates, 
And I will make you merry." 

And down they ran. 
Her damsels, crying to their lady, 

"Lo! 
Pelleas is dead — he told us — he that 

hath 
His horse and armor : will j'e let him 

in? 
He slew him ! Gawain, Gawain of the 

court, 
Sir Gawain — there he waits below the 

wall. 
Blowing his bugle as who should say 

him nay." 

And so, leave given, straight on 

thro' open door 
Rode Gawain, whom she greeted cour- 
teously. 
" Dead, is it so ? " she ask'd. " Ay, 

ay," said he, 
"And oft in dying cried upon j-our 

name." 
"Pity on him," she answer'd, "a good 

knight. 
But never let me bide one hour at 

peace." 
" Ay," thought Gawain, " and you be 

fair enow : 
But I to your dead man have given 

my troth, 
That whom ye loathe, him will I make 

you love." 

So those three days, aimless about 

the land. 
Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering 
Waited, until the third night brought 

a moon 



292 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



With promise of large light on woods 
and ways. 

Hot was the night and silent ; but a 

sound 
Of Gawain ever coming, and this 

lay — 
Which Pelleas had heard sung before 

the Queen, 
And seen her sadden listening — vext 

his heart, 
And marr'd his rest — "A worm 

within the rose." 

" A rose, but one, none other rose 
had I, 

A rose, one rose, and this was won- 
drous fair, 

One rose, a rose that gladden'd earth 
and sky. 

One rose, my rose, that sweeten'd all 
mine air — 

I cared not for the thorns ; the thorns 
were there. 

" One rose, a rose to gather by and 

by, 
One rose, a rose, to gather and to 

Avear, 
No rose but one — what other rose 

had I? 
One rose, my rose ; a rose that will 

not die, — 
He dies who loves it, — if the worm 

be there." 

This tender rhyme, and evermore 

the doubt, 
" Why lingers Gawain with his golden 

news ? " 
So shook him that he could not rest, 

but rode 
Ere midnight to her walls, and bound 

his horse 
Hard by the gates. Wide open were 

the gates. 
And no watch kept; and in thro' 

these he past. 
And lieard but his own steps, and his 

own heart 
Beating, for nothing moved but his 

own self. 
And his own shadow. Then he crost 

the court, 
And spied not any light in hall or 

bovver. 
But saw the postern portal also wide 
Yawning ; and up a slope of garden, all 
Of roses white and red, and brambles 

mixt 
And overgrowing them, went on, and 

found, 
Here too, all hush'd below the mellow 

moon. 
Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave 



Came lightening downward, and sr 

spilt itself 
Among the roses, and was lost again, 

Then was he ware of three pavil 

ions rear'd 
Above the bushes, gilden-peakt : in one. 
Red after revel, droned her lurdane 

knights 
Slumbering, and their three squires 

across their feet : 
In one, their malice on the placid lip 
Froz'n by sweet sleep, four of her 

damsels lay : 
And in the third, the circlet of the 

jousts 
Bound on her brow, were Gawain and 

Ettarre. 

Back, as a hand that pushes thro' 

the leaf 
To find a nest and feels a snake, he 

drew : 
Back, as a coward slinks from what 

he fears 
To cope with, or a traitor proven, or 

hound 
Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame 
Creep with his shadow thro' the court 

again, 
Eingering at his sword-handle until he 

stood 
There on the castle-bridge once more, 

and thought, 
" I will go back, and slay them where 

they lie." 

And so went back, and seeing them 

yet in sleep 
Said, " Ye, that so dishallow the holy 

sleep, 
Your sleep is death," and drew the 

sword, and thought, 
" What ! slay a sleeping knight ? the 

King hath bound 
And sworn me to this brotherhood ; " 

again, 
"Alas that ever a knight sliould be 

so false." 
Then turn'd, and so return'd, and 

groaning laid 
The naked sword athwart their naked 

throats. 
There left it, and them sleeping ; and 

she lay. 
The circlet of the tourney round her 

brows, 
And the sword of the tourney across her 

throat. 

And forth he past, and mounting 

on his horse 
Stared at her towers that, larger than 

themselves 
In their own darkness, throng'd into 

the moon. 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



293 



Then crush'd the saddle witli liis 

thighs, and clench'd 
His hands, and madden'd with himself 

and moan'd : 

" "Would they have risen against 

me in their blood 
At the last day 1 1 might have an- 

swer'd them 
Even before high God. towers so 

strong. 
Huge, solid, would that even while I 

gaze 
The crack of earthquake shivering to 

your base 
Split you, and Hell burst up your 

harlot roofs 
Bellowing, and charr'd j-ou thro' and 

thro' within. 
Black as the harlot's heart — hollow 

as a skull ! 
Let the fierce east scream thro' your 

eyelet-holes. 
And whirl the dust of harlots round 

and round 
In dung and nettles ! hiss, snake — I 

saw him there — 
Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. 

Who yells 
Here in the still sweet summer night, 

but I — 
I, the poor Pelleas whom she call'd 

her fool % 
Fool, beast — he, she, or I? myself 

most fool ; 
Beast too, as lacking human wit — 

disgraced, 
Dishonor'd all for trial of true love — 
Love ■? — we be all alike : only the 

King 
Hath made us fools and liars. O 

noble vows ! 

great and sane and simple race of 

brutes 
That own no lust because they have 

no law ! 
For why should I have loved her to 

my shame ? 

1 loathe lier, as I loved her to my 

shame. 
I never loved her, I but lustedf or her — 
Away — " 

He dash'd the rowel into his 
horse, 
And bounded forth and vanish'd thro' 
the night. 

Then she, that felt the cold touch 

on her throat. 
Awaking knew the sword, and turn'd 

herself 
To Gawain : " Liar, for thou hast not 

slain 
This Pelleas ! here he stood, and might 

have slain 



Me and thyself." And he that tells 

the tale 
Says that her ever-A-eering fancy turn'd 
To Pelleas, as the one true knight on 

earth, 
And only lover; and thro' her love 

her life 
Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain. 

But he by wild and way, for half 

the night, 
And over hard and soft, striking the 

sod 
From- out the soft, the spark from off 

the hard. 
Rode till the star above the wakening 

sun, 
Beside that tower where Percivale was 

cowl'd. 
Glanced from the rosy forehead of 

the dawn. 
For so the words were tlash'd into his 

heart 
He knew not whence or wherefore: 

" O sweet star. 
Pure on the virgin forehead of the 

dawn ! " 
And there he would have wept, but 

felt his eyes 
Harder and drier than a fountain 

bed 
In summer : thither came the village 

girls 
And linger'd talking, and they come 

no more 
Till the sweet heavens have fiU'd it 

from the heights 
Again with living waters in tlie change 
Of seasons : hard his eyes ; harder his 

heart 
Seem'd ; but so weary were his limbs, 

that he, 
Gasping, " Of Arthur's hall am I, but 

here. 
Here let me rest and die," cast him- 
self down, 
And gulf 'd his griefs in inmost sleep ; 

so lay, 
Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain 

fired 
The hall of Merlin, and the morning- 
star 
Eeel'd in the smoke, brake into flame, 

and fell. 

He woke, and being ware of some 
one nigh, 

Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, 
crying, 

"False ! and I held thee pure as Guin- 
evere." 

But Percivale stood near him and 
replied 
"Am I but false as Guinevere is 
pure ? 



29-1 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



Or art thou mazed with dreams ? or 

being one 
Of our free-spoken Table hast not 

heard 
That Lancelot " — there he check'd 

himself and paused. 

Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as 

with one 
Who gets a wound in battle, and the 

sword 
That made it plunges thro' the 

wound again, 
And pricks it deeper : and he shrank 

and wail'd, 
" Is the Queen false ■? " and Percivale 

was mute. 
" Have any of our Round Table held 

their vows ? " 
And Percivale made answer not a 

word. 
" Is the King true '? " " The King ! " 

said Percivale. 
" Why then let men couple at once 

with wolves. 
AVhat ! art thou mad 1 " 

But Pelleas, leaping up, 
Ran thro' the doors and vaulted on 

his horse 
And fled : small pity upon his horse 

had he, 
Or on himself, or any, and when he 

met 
A cripple, one that held a hand for 

alms — 
Hunch'd as he was, and like an old 

dwarf-elm 
That turns its back on the salt blast, 

the boy 
Paused not, but overrode him, shout- 
ing, " False, 
And false with Gawain! " and so left 

him bruised 
And batter'd, and fled on, and hill 

and wood 
Went ever streaming by him till tlie 

gloom. 
That follows on the turning of the 

world, 
Darken'd the common path : he 

twitch'd the reins. 
And made his beast that better knew 

it, swerve 
Now off it and now on ; but when he 

saw 
High up in heaven the hall that Mer- 
lin built, 
Blackening against the dead-green 

stripes of even, 
" Black nest of rats," he groan'd, " ye 

build too high." 

Not long thereafter from the city 
gates 
Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily. 



Warm with a gracious parting from 

the Queen, 
Peace at his lieart, and gazing at a star 
And marvelling what it was : on 

whom the boy. 
Across the silent seeded meadow- 
grass 
Borne, clash'd : and Lancelot, saying, 

" What name hast thou 
That ridest here so blindly and so 

hard ? " 
" I have no name," he shouted, " a 

scoujrge am I, 
To lash the treasons of the Table 

Round." 
" Yea, but thy name ? " "I have 

many names," he cried : 
" I am wrath and shame and hate 

and evil fame. 
And like a poisonous wind I jiass to 

l)last 
And blaze the crime of Lancelot and 

the Queen." 
" First over me," said Lancelot, " shalt 

thou pass." 
"Fight therefore," yell'd the other, 

and either knight 
Drew back a space, and when they 

closed, at once 
The weary steed of Pelleas flounder- 
ing flung 
His rider, who call'd out from the 

dark field, 
" Thou art false as Hell : slay me : I 

have no sword." 
Then Lancelot, " Yea, between thy 

lips — and sharp ; 
But here will I disedge it by thy 

death." 
" Slay then," he shriek'd, " my will is 

to be slain," 
And Lancelot, with his heel upon the 

fall'n, 
Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, 

then spake : 
" Rise, weakling ; I am Lancelot ; say 

thy say." 

And Lancelot slowly rode his war- 
horse back 

To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief 
while 

Caught his unbroken limbs from the 
dark field. 

And follow'd to the city. It chanced 
that both 

Brake into hall together, worn and 
pale. 

There with her knights and dames 
was Guinevere. 

Full wonderingly she gazed on Lance- 
lot 

So soon return'd, and then on Pelleas, 
him 

Who had not greeted her, but cast 
himself 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



295 



Down on a bench, hard-breathing. 

" Have ye fought ? " 
She ask'd of Lancelot. "Ay, my 

Queen," he said. 
" And thou hast overthrown him ? " 

" Ay, my Queen." 
Then she, turning to Pelleas, "O 

young knight. 
Hath the great heart of knighthood 

in thee fail'd 
.So far thou canst not bide, unfro- 

wardly, 
A fall from him ? " Then, for he 

answer'd not, 
" Or hast thou other griefs ? If I, 

the Queen, 
May help them, loose thy tongue, and 

let me know." 
But Pelleas lifted up an ej^e so fierce 
She quail'd ; and he, hissing " I have 

no sword," 
Sprang from the door into the dark. 

The Queen 
Look'd hard upon her lover, he on 

her; 
And each foresaw the dolorous day 

to be : 
And all talk died, as in a grove all 

song 
Beneath the shadow of some bird of 

prey; 
Then a long silence came upon the 

hall, 
And Modred thought, "The time is 

hard at hand." 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 
Dagoset, the fool, whom Gawain in 

his mood 
Had made mock-knight of Arthur's 

Table Kound, 
At Camelot, high above the yellow- 
ing woods. 
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the 

hall. 
And toward him from the hall, with 

harp in hand. 
And from the crown thereof a car- 

canet 
Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize 
Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday. 
Came Tristram, saying, " Why skip 

ye so. Sir Fool % " 

For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding 

once 
Far down beneath a winding wall of 

rock 
Heard a child wail. A stump of oak 

half dead. 
From roots like some black coil of 

carven snakes, 
Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' 

mid air 



Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' 
the tree 

Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' 
the wind 

Pierced ever a child's cry : and crag 
and tree 

Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the peril- 
ous nest, 

This ruby necklace thrice around her 
neck, 

And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, 
brought 

A maiden babe ; which Arthur pity- 
ing took, 

Then gave it to his Queen to rear : 
the Queen 

But coldly acquiescing, in her white 
arms 

Received, and after loved it tenderly, 

And named it Nestling; so forgot 
herself 

A moment, and her cares ; till that 
young life 

Being smitten in mid heaven with 
mortal cold 

Past from her; and in time the carcanet 

Vext her with plaintive memories of 
the child : 

So she, delivering it to Arthur, said 

" Take thou the jewels of this dead 
innocence. 

And make them, an thou wilt, a tour- 
ney-prize." 

To whom the King, " Peace to thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead nestling, and this honor after 

death, 
Following thy will ! but, my Queen, 

I muse 
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or 

zone 
Those diamonds that I rescued from 

the tarn, 
And Lancelot won, methought, for 

thee to wear." 

"Would rather you had let them 
fall," she cried, 

" Plunge and be lost — ill-fated as 
they were, 

A bitterness to me ! — ye look amazed. 

Not knowing they were lost as soon 
as given — 

Slid from my hands, when I was lean- 
ing out 

Above the river — that unhappy child 

Past in her barge : but rosier luck 
will go 

With these rich jewels, seeing that 
they came 

Not from the skeleton of a brother- 
slayer, 

But the sweet body of a maiden babe. 

Perchance — who knows ? — the pur- 
est of thy knights 



296 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



May win them for the purest of my 
maids." 

She ended, and the cry of a great 

jousts 
With trumpet-blowings ran on all the 

ways 
From Camelot in among the faded 

fields 
To furthest towers ; and everywhere 

the knights 
Arm'd for a day of glory before the 

King. 

But on the hither side of that loud 
morn 

Into the hall stagger'd, his visage 
ribb'd 

From ear to ear with dogwliip-weals, 
his nose 

Bridge-broken, one ej-e out, and one 
hand off, 

And one with shatter'd fingers dan- 
gling lame, 

A churl, to whom indignantly the 
King, 

" My churl, for whom Christ died, 

what evil beast 
Hath drawn his claws athwart thy 

face "? or fiend ? 
Man was it who marr'd heaven's 

image in thee thus ? " 

Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of 

splinter'd teeth, 
Yet strangers to the tongue, and with 

blunt stump 
Pitch-blacken 'd sawing the air, said 

the maim'd churl, 

" He took them and he drave them 

to his tower — 
Some hold he was a table-knight of 

thine — 
A hundred goodly ones — the Bed 

Knight, he — 
Lord, I was tending swine, and the 

Red Knight 
Brake in upon me and drave them to 

his tower ; 
And when I call'd upon thy name as 

one 
That doest right by gentle and by 

churl, 
Maim'd me and maul'd, and would 

outright have slain. 
Save that he sware me to a message, 

saying, 
' Tell thou the King and all his liars, 

that I 
Have founded my Bound Table in 

the North, 
And whatsoever his own kniglits have 

sworn 



My kniglits have sworn tlie counter 

to it — and say 
]\Iy tower is full of harlots, like his 

court, 
But mine are worthier, seeing they 

profess 
To be none other than themselves — 

and say 
M}"^ knights are all adulterers like his 

own, 
But mine are truer, seeing they jiro- 

fess 
To be none other ; and say his hour is 

come. 
The heathen are ujion him, his long 

lance 
Broken, and his Excalibur a straw. ' " 

Then Arthur turned to Kay the 

seneschal, 
" Take thou x\^y churl, and tend him 

curiously 
Like a king's heir, till all liis hurts be 

whole. 
The heathen — but that ever-climbing 

wave, 
Hurl'd back again so often in empt}- 

foam. 
Hath lain for years at rest — and 

renegades. 
Thieves, bandits, leavings of confu- 
sion, whom 
The wholesome realm is purged of 

otherwhere. 
Friends, tliro' your manhood and your 

fealty, — now 
Make their last head like Satan in 

the North. 
My younger knights, new-made, in 

whom your flower 
Waits to be solid fruit of golden 

deeds, 
Move with me toward their quelling, 

which achieved. 
The loneliest ways are safe from 

shore to shore. 
But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my 

place 
Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the 

field; 
For wherefore shouldst thou care to 

mingle with it. 
Only to A'ield my Queen her own 

again 1 
Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent : is it 

well ? " 

Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, " It 

is well : 
Yet better if the King abide, and 

leave 
The leading of his younger knights 

to me. 
Else, for the King has will'd it, it is 

well." 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



297 



Then Arthur rose and Lancelot fol- 
low'd him, 

And while they stood without the 
doors, the King 

Turn'd to him saying, " Is it then so 
well "? 

Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he 

Of whom was written, ' A sound is in 
his ears ' ? 

The foot that loiters, bidden go, — the 
glance 

That only seems half-loyal to com- 
mand, — 

A manner somewhat fall'n from rev- 
erence — 

Or have I dream'd the bearing of our 
knights 

Tells of a manhood ever less and 
lower ? 

Or whence the fear lest this my 
realm, uprear'd. 

By noble deeds at one with noble vows, 

From flat confusion and brute vio- 
lences. 

Reel back into the beast, and be no 
more ? " 

He spoke, and taking all his younger 

knights, 
Down the slope city rode, and sharply 

turn'd 
North by the gate. In her high bower 

the Queen, 
Working a tapestry, lifted up her 

head, 
Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not 

that she sigh'd. 
Then ran across her memory the 

strange rhyme 
Of bygone Merlin, " Where is he who 

knows ? 
From the great deep to the great 

deep he goes." 

But when the morning of a tourna- 
ment. 

By these in earnest those in mockery 
call'd 

The Tournament of the Dead Inno- 
cence, 

Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lan- 
celot, 

Round whose sick head all night, like 
birds of prey. 

The words of Arthur fl3'ing shriek'd, 
arose. 

And down a streetway hung with folds 
of pure 

White samite, and by fountains run- 
ning wine, 

Where cljildren sat in white with cups 
of gold. 

Moved to the lists, and there, with slow 
sad steps 

Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd 
chair. 



He glanced and saw the stately gal- 
leries. 

Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of 
their Queen 

White-robed in honor of the stainless 
child. 

And some with scatter'd jewels, like 
a bank 

Of maiden snow mingled with sparks 
of fire. 

He look'd but once, and vail'd his 
eyes again. 

The sudden trumpet sounded as in 

a dream 
To ears but half-awaked, then one low 

roll 
Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts 

began : 
And ever the wind blew, and yellow- 
ing leaf 
And gloom and gleam, and shower 

and shorn plume 
Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as 

one 
Who sits and gazes on a faded fire. 
When all the goodlier guests are past 

away. 
Sat their great umpire, looking o'er 

the lists. 
He saw the laws that ruled the 

tournament 
Broken, but spake not ; once, a knight 

cast down 
Before his throne of arbitration 

cursed 
The dead babe and the follies of the 

King ; 
And once the laces of a helmet crack'd. 
And show'd him, like a vermin in its 

hole, 
Modred, a narrow face : anon he heard 
The voice that billow'd round the 

barriers roar 
An ocean-soundiiig welcome to one 

knight. 
But newly -enter'd, taller than the rest, 
And armor'd all in forest green, 

whereon 
There tript a hundred tiny silver 

deer, 
And wearing but a holly-spray for 

crest. 
With ever-scattering berries, and on 

shield 
A spear, a harp, a bugle — Tristram 

— late 
From overseas in Brittany return'd, 
And marriage with a princess of that 

realm, 
Isolt the White — Sir Tristram of the 

Woods — 
Whom Lancelot knew, had held some- 
time with pain 
His own against him, and now yearn'd 

to shake 



29S 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



The burden off his heart in one full 

shock 
With Tristram ev'n to death : his 

strong hands gript 
And dinted tlie gilt dragons right and 

left, 
Until he groan'd for wrath — so many 

'of those, 
That ware their ladies' colors on tlie 

casque, 
Drew from before Sir Tristram to the 

bounds. 
And there with gibes and flickering 

mockeries 
Stood, while he mutter'd, " Craven 

crests ! shame ! 
What faith have these in wliom they 

sware to love ? 
The glory of our Round Table is no 

more." 

So Tristram won, and Lancelot 

gave, the gems, 
Not speaking other word than " Hast 

thou won ? 
Art thou the purest, brother ? See, 

the hand 
Wherewith thou takest this, is red ! " 

to whom 
Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's 

languorous mood, 
Made answer, " Ay, but wherefore toss 

me this 
Like a dry bone cast to some hungry 

hound ? 
Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. 

Strength of heart 
And might of limb, but mainly use 

and skill, 
Are winners in this pastime of our 

King. 
My hand — belike the lance hath dript 

upon it — 
No blood of mine, I trow ; but O chief 

knight, 
Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield. 
Great brother, thou nor I have made 

the world ; 
Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in 

mine." 

And Tristram round the gallery 

made his horse 
Caracole ; then bow'd his homage, 

bluntly saying, 
" Fair damsels, each to him who wor- 
ships each 
Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, 

behold 
This day my Queen of Beauty is not 

here." 
And most of these were mute, some 

anger'd,.one. 
Murmuring, "All courtesy is dead," 

and one, 
" The glory of our Round Table is no 

more." 



Then fell thick rain, plume droopt 

and mantle clung. 
And pettish cries awoke, and the wan 

day 
Went glooming down in wet and 

weariness : 
But under her black brows a swarthy 

one 
Laugh'd shrilly, crying, " Praise the 

patient saints. 
Our one white day of Innocence hath 

past, 
Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. 

So be it. 
The snowdrop only, flowering thro' the 

year, 
Would make the world as blank as 

Wintei'-tide. 
Come — let us gladden their sad eyes, 

our Queen's 
And Lancelot's at this night's solemnity 
With all the kindlier colors of the 

field." 

So dame and damsel glitter'd at the 

feast 
Variously gay : for he that tells the 

tale 
Liken'd them, saying, as when an hour 

of cold 
Falls on the mountain in midsummer 

snows. 
And all the purple slopes of mountain 

flowers 
Pass under white, till the warm hour 

returns 
With veer of wind, and all are flowers 

again ; 
So dame and damsel cast the simple 

white, 
And glowing in all colors, the live 

grass, 
Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, pop- 
py, glanced 
About the I'evels, and with mirth so 

loud 
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, 

the Queen, 
And wroth at Tristram and the law- 
less jousts. 
Brake up their sports, then slowly to 

her bower 
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. 

And little Dagonet on the morrow 
morn. 

High over all the yellowing Autumn- 
tide, 

Danced like a wither'd leaf before the 
hall. 

Then Tristram saying, " Why skip ye 
so. Sir Fool ? " 

Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet 
replied, 

" Belike for lack of wiser company ; 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



299 



Or being fool, and seeing too much 

wit 
Makes the world rotten, whj', belike I 

skip 
To know myself the wisest knight of 

all." 
" Ay, fool," said Tristram, but 'tis 

eating dry 
To dance without a catch, a roundelay 
To dance to." Then he twangled on 

his harp, 
And while he twangled little Dagonet 

stood 
Quiet as any water-sodden log 
Stay'd in tlae wandering warble of a 

brook ; 
But when tlie twangling ended, skipt 

again ; 
And being ask'd, " Why skip ye not, 

Sir FooH" 
Made answer, " I had liefer twenty 

years 
Skip to the broken music of my brains 
Than any broken music thou canst 

make." 
Then Tristram, waiting for the quip 

to come, 
" Good now, what music have I 

broken, fool ? " 
And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, 

the King's ; 
For when thou playest that air with 

Queen Isolt, 
Thou makest broken music with thy 

bride, 
Her daintier namesake down in Brit- 
tany — 
And so thou breakest Arthur's music 

too." 
" Save for that broken music in thy 

brains, 
Sir Fool," said Tristram, " I would 

break thy head. 
Fool, I came late, the heathen wars 

were o'er. 
The life had flown, we sware but by 

the sliell — 
I am but a fool to reason with a fool — 
Come, thou art crabb'd and sour : 

but lean me down. 
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' 

ears. 
And harken if my music be not true. 

" ' Free love — free field — we love 

but while we may : 
The woods are hush'd, their music is 

no more : 
The leaf is dead, the yearning past 

away : 
New leaf, new life — the days of frost 

are o'er : 
New life, new love, to suit the newer 

day: 
New loves are sweet as those that went 

before : 



Free love — free field — we hne but 
while we may.' 

" Ye might have moved slow-meas- 
ure to my tune. 

Not stood stockstill. I made it in the 
woods, 

And heard it ring as true as tested 
gold." 

But Dagonet with one foot poised 
in his hand, 

" Friend, did ye mark that fountain 
yesterday 

Made to run wine ? — but this had run 
itself 

All out like a long life to a sour 
end — 

And them that round it sat with gold- 
en cujis 

To hand the wine to whosoever came — 

The twelve small damosels white as 
Innocence, 

In honor of poor Innocence the babe, 

Who left tlie gems which Innocence 
the Queen 

Lent to the King, and Innocence the 
King 

Gave for a prize — and one of those 
white slips 

Handed her cup and piped, the pretty 
one, 

' Drink, drink. Sir Fool,' and there- 
upon I drank. 

Spat — pish — the cup was gold, the 
draught was mud." 

And Tristram, " Was it muddier than 

thy gibes ? 
Is all the laughter gone dead out of 

thee '\ — 
Not marking how the knighthood 

mock thee, fool — 
' Fear God : honor the King — his 

one true knight — 
Sole follower of the vows' — for here 

be they 
Who knew thee swine enow before I 

came. 
Smuttier than blasted grain : but 

when the King 
Had made thee fool, thy vanity so 

shot up 
It frighted all free fool from out 

thy heart ; 
W^hich left thee less than fool, and less 

than swine, 
A naked aught — j-et swine I hold 

thee still, 
For I have flung thee pearls and find 

thee swine." 

And little Dagonet mincing with his 
feet, 
"Knight, an ye fling those rubies 
round my neck 



300 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast 
some touch 

Of music, since I care not for thy 
pearls. 

Swine ? I have wallow'd, I have 
wash'd — the world 

Is flesh and shadow — I have had my 
day. 

The dirty nurse, Experience, in her 
kind 

Hath foul'd me — an I wallow'd, then 
I wash'd — 

I have had my day and my philoso- 
phies — 

And thank the Lord I am King Ar- 
thur's fool. 

Swine, say ye '? swine, goats, asses, 
rams and geese 

Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, 
who thrumm'd 

On such a wire as musically as thou 

Some such fine song — but never a 
king's fool." 

And Tristram, " Then were swine, 

goats, asses, geese 
The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim 

bard 
Had such a mastery of his mystery 
That he could harj) his wife up out 

of hell." 

Then Dagonet, turning on the ball 
of his foot, 

" And whither liarp'st thou thine ? 
down ! and thyself 

Down ! and two more : a helpful harp- 
er thou, 

Tliat harpest downward ! Dost thou 
know the star 

We call the harp of Arthur up in 
heaven ? " 

And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for 

when our King 
Was victor wellnigh day by day, the 

knights, 
Glorying in each new glory, set his 

name 
High on hills, and in the signs of 

heaven." 

And Dagonet answcr'd, "Ay, and 
when the land 

Was freed, and the Queen false, ye 
set yourself 

To babble about him, all to show your 
wit — 

And whether he were King by cour- 
tesy. 

Or King by right — and so went harp- 
ing down 

The black king's highway, got so far, 
and grew 

So witty that ye play'd at ducks and 
drakes 



With Arthur's vows on the great lake 

of fire. 
Tuwhoo ! do ye see it ? do ye see the 

star ? 



"Nay, fool," said Tristram, " not in 

open day." 
And Dagonet, " Nay, nor will : I see 

it and hear. 
It makes a silent music up in heaven, 
And I, and Arthur and the angels 

hear. 
And then we skip." " Lo, fool," he 

said, "ye talk 
Fool's treason : is the King thy brother 

fool ? " 
Then little Dagonet clapt his hands 

and slirill'd, 
" Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of 

fools ! 
Conceits himself as God that he cau 

make 
Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles^ 

milk 
From burning spurge, honey from hor- 
net-combs. 
And men from beasts — Long live the 

king of fools ! " 

And down the city Dagonet danced 
away ; 
But thro' the slowly-mellowing ave- 
nues 
And solitary passes of the wood 
Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and 

the west. 
Before liim fled the face of Queen Isolt 
With ruby-circled neck, but evermore 
Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood 
Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye 
For all that walk'd, or crept, or 

])erch'd, or flew. 
Anon the face, as, when a gust hath 

blown, 
Unruffling waters re-collect the shape 
Of one that in them sees himself, re- 

turn'd ; 
But at the slot or fewmets of a deer,. 
Or ev'n a fall'n feather,vanish'd again. 

So on for all that day from lawn to 

lawn 
Thro' many a league-long bower he 

rode. At length 
A lodge of intertwisted beechen- 

boughs 
Furze-cram m'd, and bracken-roof t, the 

which himself 
Built for a summer day with Queea 

Isolt 
Against a shower, dark in the golden 

grove 
Appearing, sent his fancy back to 

where 
She lived a moon in that low lodge 

with him : 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



301 



Till Mark her lord had past, the Corn- 
ish King, 

With six or seven, when Tristram was 
away, 

And snatoh'd her thence ; yet dread- 
ing worse than shame 

Her warrior Tristram, spake not any 
word, 

But bode his hour, devising wretched- 
ness. 

And now that desi-rt lodge to Tris- 
tram lookt 
So sweet, that h.alting, iii lu^ ])ast, and 

sank 
Down on a drift of foliage random 

blown ; 
But could not rest for musing how to 

smoothe 
And sleek his marriage over to the 

Queen. 
Perchance in lone Tintagil fur from 

all 
The tongucstcrs of tlie court slie liad 

not heard. 
But then what foil}' had sent liim over- 
seas 
After she left him lonely here ? a 

name 1 
Was it the name of one in Brittany, 
Isolt, the daughter of the King % 

" Isolt 
Of the white hands " they call'd lier : 

the sweet name 
Allured him first, and then the maid 

herself, 
Who served him well with those white 

hands of liers, 
And loved him well, until himself had 

thought 
He loved her also, wedded easily, 
But left her all as easily and return'd. 
The black-blue Irish hair and Irish 

eyes 
Had drawn him home — what marvel ? 

then he laid 
His brows upon the drifted leaf and 

dream 'd. 

He seem'd to pace the strand of 

Brittany 
Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, 
And show'd them both the ruby-chain, 

and both 
Began to struggle for it, till his 

Queen 
Graspt it so hard, that all her hand 

was red. 
Then cried the Breton, "Look, her 

hand is red ! 
These be no rubies, this is frozen 

blood, 
And melts within her hand — her 

hand is hot 
With ill desires, but this I gave thee, 

look, 



Is all as cool and white as any flower." 
FoUow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and 

then 
A whimpering of the spirit of tlie 

child. 
Because the twain had spoiled her 

carcanet. 

He dream'd; but Artinir with a 

hundred spears 
Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed. 
And numy a glancing plash and sal- 

lowy isle. 
The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty 

marsh 
Glared on a huge machicolated tower 
That stood with open doors, where- 

out was roU'd 
A roar of riot, as from men secure 
Amid their marshes, ruffians at their 

case 
Among their harlot-brides, an evil 

song. 
" Lo there," said one of Arthur's 

youth, for there, 
High on a grim dead tree before the 

tower, 
A goodly brother of the Table Round 
Swung by the neck : and on the 

boughs a shield 
Showing a shower of blood in a field 

noir. 
And tliere beside a horn, inflamed the 

knights 
At that dishonor done the gilded spur, 
Till each would clash the shield, and 

blow the horn. 
But Arthur waved them back. Alone 

he rode. 
Then at the dry harsh roar of the 

great horn, 
That sent the face of all the marsh 

aloft 
An ever upward-rushing storm and 

cloud 
Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight 

heard, and all. 
Even to tijjmost lance and top- 
most helm. 
In blood-red armor sallying, howl'd 

to the King, 

"The teeth of Hell flay bare and 
gnash thee flat ! — 

Lo ! art thou not that eunuch-hearted 
King 

Who fain had clipt free manhood 
from the world — 

The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's 
curse, and I ! 

Slain was the brother of my para- 
mour 

By a knight of thine, and I that heard 
her whine 

And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, 



302 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Sware by the scorpion-worm that 

■ twists in liell, 
And stings itself to everlasting deaili, 
'I'o hang whatever knight of thine 1 

fought 
And tumbled. Art thou King ■? -— 

Look to thy life ! " 

He ended : Arthur knew the voice ; 

the face 
Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the 

name 
Went wandering somewhere darkling 

in his mind. 
And Arthur deign'd not use of word 

or sword, 
But let the drunkard, as he stretcli'd 

from horse 
To strike him, overbalancing his 

bulk, 
Down from the causeway heavily to 

the swamp 
Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching 

wave, 
Heard in dead night along that table- 
shore. 
Drops flat, and after the great waters 

break 
Whitening for half a league, and thin 

themselves, 
Far over sands marbled with moon 

and cloud, 
From less and less to nothing ; thus 

he fell 
Head-heavy; then the knights, who 

watch'd him, roar'd 
And shouted and leapt down upon the 

fall'n ; 
There trampled out his face from 

being known, 
And sank his head in mire, and slimed 

themselves : 
Nor heard the King for their own 

cries, but sprang 
Thro' open doors, and swording right 

and left 
Men, women, on their sodden faces, 

hurl'd 
The tables over and the wines, and 

slew 
Till all the rafters rang with woman- 
yells. 
And all the pavement stream'd with 

massacre : 
Then, yell with yell echoing, they 

fired the tower. 
Which half that autumn night, like 

the live North, 
Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and 

Alcor, 
Made all above it, and a hundred 

meres 
About it, as .the water Moab 

saw 
Come round by the East, and out be- 
yond them flush'd 



The long low dune, and lazy-plunging 
sea. 

So all the ways were safe from 
shore to shore, 
But in the heart of Arthur pain was 
lord. 

Then, out of Tristram waking, the 

red dream 
Fled with a shout, and that low lodge 

return'd. 
Mid-forest, and the wind among the 

boughs. 
He whistled his good warhorse left to 

graze 
Among the forest greens, vaulted 

upon him. 
And rode beneath an ever-showering 

leaf. 
Till one lone woman, weeping near a 

cross, 
Stay'd him. " Why weep ye "? " 

" Lord," she said, " my man 
Hath left me or is dead ; " whereon he 

thought — 
" What, if she hate me now '? I 

would not this. 
"What, if she loves me still"? I 

would not that. 
I know not what I would" — but said 

to her, 
" Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate 

return. 
He find thy favor changed and love 

thee not " — 
Then pressing day by day thro' 

Lyonnesse 
Last in a rocky hollow, belling, heard 
The hounds of Mark, and felt the 

goodly hounds 
Yelp at his heart, but turning, past 

and gain'd 
Tintagil, half in sea, and high on 

land, 
A crown of towers. 

Down in a casement sat, 

A low sea-sunset glorying round her 
hair 

And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the 
Queen. 

And when she heard the feet of Tris- 
tram grind 

The spiring stone that scaled about 
her tower, 

Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, 
and there 

Belted his body with her white em- 
brace. 

Crying aloud, "Not Mark — not 
Mai-k, my soul ! 

The footstep flutter'd me at first : not 
he: 

Catlike thro' his own castle steals my 
Mark, 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



303 



But warrior-wise . thou strictest thro' 

his halls 
Who hates thee, as I him — ev'n to 

the death. 
My soul, I felt my hatred for my 

Mark 
Quicken within me, and knew that 

thou wert nigh." 
To whom Sir Tristram smiling, " I am 

here. 
Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not 

thine." 

And drawing somewhat backward 

she replied, 
" Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n 

his own. 
But save for dread of thee had beaten 

me, 
Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me 

somehow — Mark ? 
What rights are his that dare not 

strike for them ? 
Not lift a hand — not, tho' he found 

me thus ! 
But hearken ! have ye met him ? 

hence he went 
To-day for three days' hunting — as 

he said — 
And so returns belike within an hour. 
Mark's way, my soul ! — but eat not 

thou with Mark, 
Because he hates thee even more than 

fears ; 
Nor drink : and when thou passest 

any wood 
Close vizor, lest an arrow from the 

bush 
Should leave me all alone with Mark 

and hell. 
My God, the measure of my hate for 

Mark 
Is as the measure of my love for 

thee." 

So, pluck'd one way by hate and 

one by love, 
Drain'd of her force, again she sat, 

and spake 
To Tristram, as he knelt before her, 

saying, 
" O hunter, and blower of the horn. 
Harper, and thou hast been a rover 

too, 
For, ere I mated with my shambling 

king. 
Ye twain had fallen out about the 

bride 
( )f one — his name is out of me — the 

prize. 
If prize she were — (what marvel — 

she could see) — 
Thine, friend; and ever since my 

craven seeks 
To wreck thee villanously : but, 

Sir Knight, 



Wliat dame or damsel have ye kneel'd 
to last ? *• 

And Tristram, " Last to my Queen 

Paramount, 
Here now to my Queen Paramount of 

love 
And loveliness — ay, lovelier than 

when first 
Her light feet fell on our rough Ly- 

onnesse. 
Sailing from Ireland." 

Softly laugh 'd Isolt ; 
" Flatter me not, for hath not our great 

Queen 
My dole of beauty trebled 1 " and he 

said, 
" Her beauty is her beauty, and thine 

thine. 
And thine is more to me — soft, gra- 
cious, kind — 
Save when thy Mark is kindled on 

tliy lips 
Most gracious ; but she, haughty, ev'n 

to him, 
Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow 
To make one doubt if ever the great 

Queen 
Have yielded him her love." 

To whom Isolt, 

" Ah then, false hunter and false har- 
per, thou 

Who brakest thro' the scruple of my 
bond. 

Calling me thy white hind, and say- 
ing to me 

That Guinevere had sinn'd against 
the highest. 

And I — misj'oked with such a want 
of man — 

That I could hardly sin against the 
lowest." 

He answer'd, " O my soul, be com- 
forted ! 

If this be sweet, to sin in leading- 
strings. 

If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, 

Crown'd warrant had we for the 
crowning sin 

That made us happy : but how ye 
greet me — fear 

And fault and doubt — no word of 
that fond tale — 

Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet 
memories 

Of Tristram in that year he was 
away." 

And, saddening on the sudden, spake 

Isolt, 
" I had forgotten all in my strong joy 
To see thee — yearnings ? — ay ! for, 

hour by hour. 



304 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Here in the never-ended afternoon, 

O sweeter than all memories of thee, 

Deeper than any yearnings after thee 

Seem'd those far-rolling, westward- 
smiling seas, 

Watch'd from this tower. Isolt of 
Britain dash VI 

Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, 

Would that have chill'd her bride- 
kiss ? Wedded her ? 

Fought in her father's battles ? 
wounded there? 

The King was all fulfill'd with grate- 
fulness, 

And she, my namesake of the hands, 
that heal'd 

Thy hurt and heart with unguent and 
caress — 

Well — can I wish her any huger 
wrong 

Than liaving known thee ? her too 
hast thou left 

To pine and waste in those sweet 
memories. 

O were I not my Mark's, by whom all 
men 

Are noble, I should hate thee more 
than love." . 

And Tristram, fondling her light 

hands, replied, 
" Grace, Queen, for being loved : she 

loved me well. 
Did I love her '? the name at least I 

loved. 
Isolt "? — I fought his battles, for Isolt ! 
The night was dark ; the true star set. 

Isolt ! 
The name was ruler of the dark 

Isolt ? 
Care not for her ! patient, and prayer- 
ful, meek, 
Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to 

God." 

And Isolt answer'd, " Yea, and why 

not I? 
Mine is the larger need, who am not 

meek, 
Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell 

thee now. 
Here one black, mute midsummer 

• night I sat. 
Lonely, but musing on thee, wonder- 
ing where, 
Murmuring a light song I had heard 

thee sing. 
And once or twice I spake thy name 

aloud. 
Then flash'd a levin-brand ; and near 

me stood, 
In fuming sulphur blue and green, a 

fiend — 
Mark's way to steal behind one in the 

dark — 



For there was Mark : ' He has wedded 

her,' he said, 
Not said, but hiss'd it : then this crown 

of towers 
So shook to such a roar of all the 

sky. 
That here in utter dark I swoon'd 

away. 
And woke again in utter dark, and 

cried, 
' I will flee hence and give myself to 

God ' — 
And thou wert lying in thy new 

leman's arms." 

Then Tristram, ever dallying with 

her hand, 
"May God be with thee, sweet, when 

old and gray. 
And past desire ! " a saying that 

aiiger'd her. 
" ' May God be with thee, sweet, when 

thou art old, 
And sweet no more to me ! ' I need 

Him now. 
For when had Lancelot utter'd aught 

so gross 
Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the 

mast ? 
The greater man, the greater courtesy. 
Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's 

knight ! 
But thou, thro' ever harrying thy 

wild beasts — 
Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a 

lance 
Becomes thee well — art grown wild 

beast thyself. 
How darest thou, if lover, push me 

even 
In fancy from thy side, and set me 

far 
In the gray distance, half a life away. 
Her to be loved no more ? Unsay it, 

unswear ! 
Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, 
Broken with JNIark and hate and soli- 
tude, 
Thy marriage and mine own, that I 

should suck 
Lies like sweet wines : lie to me : I 

believe. 
Will ye not lie 1 not swear, as there 

ye kneel, 
And solemnly as when ye sware to 

him, 
The man of men, our King — My 

God, the power 
Was once in vows when men believed 

the King ! 
They lied not then, who sware, and 

thro' their vows 
The King prevailing made his realm ; 

— I say, 
Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n 

when old. 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



305 



Gray-hair'd, and past desire, ami in 
despair." 

Then Tristram, pacing moodily Tip 

and down, 
"Vows! did you keep the vow you 

made to Mark 
More than I mine ? Lied, say ye "? 

Nay, but learnt, 
The vow that binds too strictly snaps 

itself — 
My knighthood taught me this — ay, 

being snapt — 
"We run more counter to the soul 

thereof 
Tlian had we never sworn. I swear 

no more. 
I swore to the great King, and am 

forsworn. 
For once — ev'n to the height — I 

honor'd him. 
' Man, is he man at all ? ' inethought, 

M'hen first 
I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and 

beheld 
That victor of the Pagan throned in 

hall — 
His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a 

brow 
Like hillsnow high in heaven, the 

steel-blue eyes, 
The golden beard that clothed liis 

lips with light — 
Moreover, that weird legend of his 

birth. 
With Merlin's mystic babble about 

his end 
Amazed me ; then, his foot was on a 

stool 
Shaped as a dragon ; he seem'd to me 

no man, 
But Michael trampling Satan ; so I 

sware, 
Being amazed: but this went by^ — 

The vows ! 
O ay — the wholesome madness of 

an hour — 
They served their use, their time ; for 

every knight 
Believed himself a greater than him- 
self, 
And every follower eyed him as a God; 
Till he, being lifted up beyond him- 
self, 
Did mightier deeds than elsewise he 

had done, 
And so the realm was made ; but 

then their vows — 
First mainly thro' that sullying of 

our Queen — 
Began to gall the knighthood, asking 

whence 
Had Arthur right to bind them to 

himself ? 
Dropt down from heaven ? wash'd 

up from out the deep ? 



They fail'd to trace him thro' the 

flesh and blood 
Of our old kings : whence then ? a 

doubtful lord 
To bind them by inviolable vows. 
Which flesh and blood jjerforce would 

violate : 
For feel this arm of mine — the tide 

within 
Bed with free chase and heather- 
scented air, 
Pulsing full man; can Arthur make 

me pure 
As any maiden child "f lock up my 

tongue 
From uttering freely what I freely 

hear ? 
Bind me to one ? The wide world 

lauglis at it. 
And worldling of the world am I, and 

know 
The ptarmigan that whitens ere his 

hour 
Woos his own end; we are not angels 

here 
Nor shall be : vows — I am woodman 

of the woods, 
And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale 
Mock them : my soul, we love but 

M'hile we may ; 
And therefore is my love so large for 

thee, 
Seeing it is not bounded save by 

love." 



Here ending, he moved toward her, 

and she said, 
" Good : an I turn'd away my love for 

thee 
To some one thrice as courteous as 

thyself — 
For courtesy wins women all as well 
As valor may, but he that closes both 
Is perfect, he is Lancelot — taller in- 
deed, 
Rosier and comelier, thou — but say I 

loved 
This knightliest of all knights, and 

cast thee back 
Thine own small saw, ' We love but 

while we maj'^,' 
Well then, what answer 1 ' 



He that while she spake, 
Mindful of what he brought to adorn 

her with. 
The jewels, had let one finger lightly 

touch 
The warm white apple of her throat, 

replied, 
"Press this a little closer, sweet, 

until — 
Come, I am hunger'd and half-an- 

ger'd — meat, 



306 



GUINEVERE. 



Wine, wine — and I will love thee to 

the death, 
And out beyond into the dream to 

come." 

So then, when both were brought 

to full accord, 
She rose, and set before him all he 

will'd ; 
And after these had comforted the 

blood 
With meats and wines, and satiated 

their hearts — 
Now talking of their woodland para- 
dise, 
The deer, the dews, the fern, the 

founts, the lawns ; 
Now mocking at the much ungainli- 

ness. 
And craven shifts, and long crane 

legs of Mark — 
Then Tristram laughing caught the 

liarp, and sang : 

" Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that 

bend the brier ! 
A star in heaven, a star within the 

mere ! 
Ay, ay, O ay — a star was my desire, 
And one was far apart, and .one was 

near : 
Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bow 

the grass ! 
And one was water and one star was 

fire, 
And one will ever shine and one will 

pass. 
Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that move 

the mere." 

Then in the light's last glimmer 

Tristram show'd 
And swung the ruby carcanet. She 

cried, 
"The collar of some Order, which 

our King 
Hath newly founded, all for thee, my 

soul, 
For thee, to yield thee grace beyond 

thy peers." 

" Not so, my Queen," he said, " but 
the red fruit 

Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid- 
heaven, 

And won by Tristram as a: tourney- 
prize, 

And hither brought by Tristram for 
his last 

Love-offering and peace-offering unto 
thee." 

He spoke, he turn'd, then, flinging 
round her neck, 
Claspt it, and cried " Thine Order, O 
my Queen ! " 



But, while he bow'd to kiss the jew- 

ell'd throat, 
Out of the dark, just as the lips had 

touch'd. 
Behind him rose a shadow and a 

shriek — 
" Mark's way," said Mark, and clove 

him thro' the brain. 

That night came Arthur home, and 

while he climb'd, 
All in a death-dumb autumn-drip- 
ping gloom, 
The stairway to the hall, and look'd 

and saw 
The great Queen's bower was dark, — 

about his feet 
A voice clung sobbing till he ques- 

tion'd it, 
" What art thou ? " and the voice 

about his feet 
Sent up an answer, sobbing, "I am 

thy fool, 
And I shall never make thee smile 

again." 



GUINEVERE. 

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, 

and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little 

maid, 
A novice : one low light betwixt them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all 

abroad. 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to 

the face, 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land 

was still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause 

of flight 
Sir Modred; he that like a subtle 

beast 
Lay coucliant with his eyes upon the 

throne, 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance : 

for this 
He chill'd the popular praises of the 

King 
With silent smiles of slow disparage- 
ment ; 
And tamper'd with the Lords of the 

White Horse, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left ; 

and sought 
To make disruption in the Table Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end; and all 

his aims 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for 

Lancelot. 



GUINEVERE. 



307 



For thus it chanced one morn when 

all the court. 
Green-suited, but wiiii plumes that 

niock'd the may, 
Had been, their wont, a-maying and 

return'd, 
That Modred still in green, all ear 

and eye, . 
Climb'd to the high top of the garden- 
wall 
To si)y some secret scandal if he might, 
And saw the Queen wlio sat betwixt 

her best 
Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 
The wiliest and the worst ; and more 

than this 
He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing 

by 

Spied where he crouch'd, and as the 

gardener's hand 
Picks from tlie colewort a green cater- 
pillar, 
So from the high wall and the flower- 
ing grove 
Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by 

the heel, 
And cast him as a worm upon the way ; 
But when he knew the Prince tho' 

marr'd with dust. 
He, reverencing king's blood in a bad 

man, 
Made such excuses as he might, and 

these 
Full knightly without scorn; for in 

those days 
No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt 

in scorn; 
But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, 

in him 
By those whom God had made full- 

limb'd and tall. 
Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect. 
And he was answer 'd softly by the King 
And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot 

holp 
To raise the Prince, who rising twice 

or thrice 
Full sharply smote his knees, and 

smiled, and went : 
But, ever after, the small violence done 
Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart. 
As the sharp wind that ruffles all day 

long 
A little bitter pool about a stone 
On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she 

laugh'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife 

who cries 
" I shudder, some one steps across my 

grave ; " 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for 

indeed 



She half-foresaw that he, the subtle 

beast. 
Would track her guilt until he found, 

and hers 
Would be for evermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front 

in hall. 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy 

face. 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persis- 
tent eye : 
Henceforward too, the Powers that 

tend the soul. 
To help it from the death that cannot 

die. 
And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time 

for hours. 
Beside the placid breathings of the 

King, 
Li the dead night, grim faces came 

and went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 
Like to some doubtful noise of creak- 
ing doors. 
Heard by the watcher in a haunted 

house. 
That keeps the rust of murder on the 

walls — 
Held her awake : or if she slept, she 

dream'd 
An awful dream ; for then she seem'd 

to stand 
On some vast plain before a setting sun, 
And from tlie sun there swiftly made 

at her 
A ghastly something, and its shadow 

flew 
Before it, till it touch'd her, and she 

turn'd — 
When lo ! her own, that broadening 

from her feet. 
And blackening, swallow'd all the 

land, and in it 
Far cities burnt, and with a cry she 

woke. 
And all this trouble did not pass but 

grew ; 
Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless 

. King, 
And trustful courtesies of household 

life. 
Became her bane ; and at the last she 

said, 
" O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine 

own land. 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again. 
And if we meet again, some evil chance 
Will make the smouldering scandal 

break and blaze 
Before the people, and our lord the 

King." 
And Lancelot ever promised, but re- 

main'd. 
And still they met and met. Again 

she said. 



30S 



GUINEVERE. 



" U Lancelot, if thou love me get thee 

hence." 
And then they were agreed upon a 

night 
{When the good King should not be 

there) to meet 
And part lor ever. Passion-pale they 

met 
And greeted : hands in hands, and eye 

to eye, 
Low on the border of her couch they 

sat 
Stammering and staring : it was their 

last hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred 

brought 
His creatures to the basement of the 

tower 
For testimony; and crying with full 

voice 
"Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at 

last," aroused 
Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike 
Leapt on him, and hurl'd him head- 
long, and he fell 
Stunn'd, and his creatures took and 

bare him off. 
And all was still : then she, " The end 

is come. 
And I am shamed for ever ; " and he 

said, 
" Mine be the shame ; mine was the 

sin ; but rise, 
And fiy to my strong castle overseas ; 
There will I hide thee, till my life 

shall end. 
There hold thee with my life against 

the world." 
She answer'd, "Lancelot, wilt thou 

hold me so ? 
Nay, friend, for we have taken our 

farewells. 
Would God that thou couldst hide me 

from myself ! 
Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and 

tliou 
Unwedded : yet rise now, and let us 

fly. 

Por I will draw me into sanctuarj". 
And bide my doom." So Lancelot 

got her horse. 
Set her thereon, and mounted on his 

own, 
And then theyrode to the divided way, 
There kiss'd, and parted weeping : for 

he past. 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the 

Queen, 
Back to his land ; but she to Almes- 

bury 
Fled all night long by glimmering 

waste and weald. 
And heard the spirits of the waste 

and weald 
Moan as she fled, or thought she heard 

tliem moan : 



And in herself she moan'd " Too late, 

too late ! " 
Till in the cold wind that foreruns the 

morn, 
A blot in heaven, the Eaven, flying 

high, 
Croak'd, and she thought, " He spies 

a field of death ; 
For now the Heathen of the Northern 

Sea, 
Lured by the crimes and frailties of 

the court, 
Begin to slay the folk, and sj^oil the 

land." 

And when she came to Almesbury 

she spake 
There to the nuns, and said, " Mine 

enemies 
Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 
Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor 

ask 
Her name to whom ye yield it, till her 

time 
To tell you : " and her beauty, grace 

and power. 
Wrought as a charm upon them, aud 

they spared 
To ask it. 

So the statelj- Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among 

the nuns ; 
Nor with them mix'd, nor told her 

name, nor sought, 
Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for 

shrift. 
But communed only with the little 

maid. 
Who pleased her with a babbling 

heedlessness 
Which often lured her from herself ; 

but now. 
This night, a rumor wildly blown 

about 
Came, that Sir Modred had usurp'd 

the realm. 
And leagued him with the heathen, 

while the King 
Was waging war on Lancelot : then 

she thought, 
" With what a hate the people and 

the King 
Must hate me," and bow'd down upon 

her hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who 

brook'd 
No silence, brake it, littering " Late ! 

so late ! 
What hour, I wonder, now 1 " and when 

she drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her ; 

" Late, so late ! " 
Which when she heard, the Queen 

look'd up, and said. 



GUINEVERE. 



309 



" O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing, 
Sing, and unbind my lieart tliat I may 

weep." 
Wlaereat full willingly sang the little 

maid. 

" Late, late, so late ! and dark the 

night and chill ! 
Late, late, so late ! but we can enter 

still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter 

now. 

" No light had we : for that we do 

repent ; 
And learning this, the bridegroom 

will relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter 

now. 

" No light : so late ! and dark 

and chill the night ! 
O let us in, that we may find the light ! 
Too late, too late : ye cannot enter 

now. 

" Have we not heard the bridegroom 

is so sweet 1 
let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter 

now." 

So sang the novice, while full pas- 
sionately. 

Her head upon her hands, remember- 
ing 

Her thought when first she came, 
wept the sad Queen. 

Then said the little novice prattling 
to her, 

" O pray you, noble lady, weep no 
more ; 

But let my words, the words of one 
so small, 

Who knowing nothing knows but to 
obey, 

And if I do not there is penance giv- 
en — 

Comfort your sorrows; for they do 
not flow 

From evil done ; right sure I am of 
that. 

Who see your tender grace and state- 
liness. 

But weigh your sorrows with our lord 
the King's, 

And weighing find them less ; for 
gone is he 

To wage grim war against Sir Lance- 
lot there, 

Round that strong castle where he 
holds the Queen ; 

And Modred whom he left in charge 
of all. 



The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the 

King's grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, 

and realm, 
Must needs be thrice as great as any 

of ours. 
For me, I thank the saints, I am not 

great. 
For if there ever come a grief to me 
I cry my cry in silence, and have done. 
None knows it, and my tears have 

brought me good : 
But even were the griefs of little ones 
As great as those of great ones, yet 

this grief 
Is added to the griefs the great must 

bear, 
That howsoever much they may desire 
Silence, they cannot weep behind a 

cloud : 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good King and his wicked 

Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a 

Queen, 
Well might I wish to veil her wicked- 
ness, 
But were I such a King, it could not 

be." 



Then to her own sad heart mutter'd 
the Queen, 

" Will the child kill me with her inno- 
cent talk ? " 

But openly she answer'd, " Must not I, 

If this false traitor have displaced his 
lord, 

Grieve with the common grief of all 
the realm ? " 



" Yea," said the maid, " this is all 

woman's grief. 
That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table 

Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, 

years ago, 
With signs and miracles and wonders, 

there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the 

Queen." 

Then thoiight the Queen within her- 
self again, 

" Will the child kill me with her fool- 
ish prate '? " 

But openly she spake and said to her, 

" little maid, shut in by nunnery 
walls. 

What canst thou know of Kings and 
Tables Round, 

Or what of signs and wonders, but the 
signs 

And simple miracles of thy nunnery % " 



310 



GUINEVERE. 



To whom the little novice garru- 
lously, 

" Yea, but 1 know : the land was full 
of signs 

And wonders ere the coming of the 
Queen. 

So said my father, and himself was 
knight 

Of the great Table — at the founding 
of it ; 

And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, 
and he said 

That as he rode, an hour or maybe 
twain 

After the sunset, down the coast, he 
heard 

Strange music, and he paused, and 
turning — there. 

All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, 

Each with a beacon-star upon his head. 

And with a wild sea-lightabout hisf eet. 

He saw them — headland after head- 
land flame 

Far on into the rich heart of the 
west : 

And in the light the white mermaiden 
swam. 

And strong man-breasted things stood 
from the sea. 

And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the 
land. 

To which the little elves of chasm and 
cleft 

Made answer, sounding like a distant 
horn. 

So said my father — yea, and further- 
more, 

Ne.xt morning, while he past the dim- 
lit woods, 

Himself belield three spirits mad with 
joy 

Come dashing down on a tall wayside 
flower. 

That shook beneath them, as the this- 
tle shakes 

When three gray linnets wrangle for 
the seed : 

And still at evenings on before his 
horse 

The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and 
broke 

Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd 
and broke 

Flying, for all the land was full of life. 

And when at last he came to Camelot, 

A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 

Swung round the lighted lantern of 
tiie hall ; 

And in the hall itself was such a feast 

As never man had dream'd; for every 
knight 

Had whatsoever meat he long'd for 
served 

By hands unseen ; and even as he said 

Down in the cellars merry bloated 
things 



Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on 

the butts 
While the wine ran : so glad were 

spirits and men 
Before the coming of the sinful 

Queen." 

Then spake the Queen and some- 
what bitterly, 

" Were they so glad '? ill prophets 
were they all, 

Spirits and men : could none of them 
foresee, 

Not even thy wise father with his signs 

And wonders, what has fall'n upon 
the realm "? " 

To whom the novice garrulously 

again, 
" Yea, one, a bard ; of whom ray father 

said. 
Full many a noble war-song had he 

sung, 
Ev'nin the presence of an enemy's 

fleet, 
Between the steep cliff and the com- 
ing wave; 
And many a mystic lay of life and 

death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain- 
tops. 
When round him bent the spirits of 

the hills 
With all their dewy hair blown back 

like flame : 
So said my father — and that night 

the bard 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and 

sang the King 
As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd 

at those 
Who call'd him the false son of Gor- 

lo'is : 
For there was no man knew from 

whence he came ; 
But after tempest, when the long 

wave broke 
All down the thundering shores of 

Bude and Bos, 
There came a day as still as heaven, 

and then 
They found a naked child upon the 

sands 
Of dark Tintagil by the Cornisli sea ; 
And that was Arthur ; and they fos- 

ter'd him 
Till he by miracle was a]iproven King : 
And that his grave should be a mystery 
From all men, like his birth ; and 

could he find 
A woman in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he 

sang. 
The twain together well might change 

the world. 
But even in the middle of his song 



GUINEVERE. 



5U 



He falter'd, and liis hand fell from the 

harp, 
And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and 

would have fall'n, 
But that they stay'd him up ; nor 

would he tell 
His vision ; but what doubt that he 

foresaw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the 

Queen ? " 

Then thought the Queen, " Lo ! 
they have set her on. 

Our simple-seeming Abbess and her 
nuns, 

To play upon' me," and bow\". her 
head nor spake. 

Whereat the novice crying, with 
clasp'd hands. 

Shame on her own garrulity garru- 
lously, 

Said the good nuns would check hor 
gadding tongue 

Full often, " and, sweet lady, if I seem 

To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, 

UnmJinnerly, with prattling and the 
talcs 

Which my good father told me, check 
me too 

Nor let me shame my father's mem- 
ory, one 

Of noblest manners, tho' himself 
would say 

Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he 
died, 

Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five sum- 
mers back, 

And left me ; but of others who remain. 

And of the two first-fameil for 
courtesy — 

And pra}^ you check me if I ask 
amiss — 

But pray you, which had noblest, 
while you moved 

Among them, Lancelot or our lord 
the King ? " 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and 

answer'd her, 
" Sir Lancelot, as became a noble 

knight, 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the 

same 
Li open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and the 

King 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these 

two 
Were the most nobly-niann'.'r'd men 

of all; 
For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature, and of noble mind." 

"Yea," said the maid, "be manners 
such fair fruit ? 



Then Lancelot's needs must be a thou- 
sand-fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumor runs, 
The most disloyal friend in all the 
world." 

To which a mournful answer made 

the Queen : 
" closed about by narrowing nun- 
nery-walls, 
What knowest thou of the world, and 

all its lights 
And shadows, all the wealth and all 

the woe ■? 
If ever Lancelot, that most noble 

knight, 
Were for one liour less noble than 

himself. 
Pray for him that he scape the doom 

of fire. 
And weep for her who drew him to 

his doom." 

"Yea," said the little novice, "I 

pray for both ; 
But I should all as soon believe that 

his, 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the 

King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours 

would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful 

Queen." 

So she, like many another babbler, 

hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'tl 

where she would heal ; 
For here a sudden flush of wrathful 

heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, 

who cried, 
" Such as thou art be never maiden 

more 
For ever ! thou their tool, set on to 

plague 
And play upon, and harry me, petty spy 
And traitress." When that storm of 

anger brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden 

rose, 
White as her veil, and stood before 

the Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the 

beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and 

fly. 

And when the Queen had added " Get 
thee hence," 

Fled frighted. Then that other left 
alone 

Sigh'd, and began to gather heart 
again, 

Saving in herself, " The simple, fear- 
ful child 



312 



GUINEVERE. 



psss^^wjisaiwK 




•■ i hey, 
Bapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love. 

Rode, under groves that look'd a paradise 
Of Blossom." 



Meant nothing, but my own too-fear- 
ful guilt, 

Simpler than any child, betrays itself. 

But help me, heaven, for surely I 
repent. 

For what is true repentance but in 
thought — 

Not ev'n in inmost thought to think 
again 

The sins that made the past so pleasant 
to us : 



And I have sworn never to see him 

more, 
To see him more." 

And ev'n in saying tliis. 
Her memory from old habit of the 

mind 
Went slipping back upon the golden 

days 
In which she saw him first, when 

Lancelot came, 



GUINEVERE. 



313 



Reputed the best knight and goodliest 

man, 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Artliur, and led her forth, and far 

ahead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they, 
Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on 

love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, 

(for the time 
Was maytime, and as yet no sin was 

dream'd, ) 
Rode under groves that look'd a para- 
dise 
Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 
That seem'd the heavens upbreaking 

thro' the earth. 
And on from hill to hill, and every day 
Beheld at noon in some delicious 

dale 
The silk pavilions of King Arthur 

raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By couriers gone before ; and on 

again, 
Till yet once more ere set of sun they 

saw 
Tlie Dragon of the great Pendragon- 

ship, 
That crown'd the state pavilion of the 

King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent 

well. 

But when the Queen immersed in 

such a trance, 
And moving thro' the past uncon- 
sciously, 
Came to that point where first she 

saw the King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd 

to find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, 

thought him cold. 
High, self-contain'd, and passionless, 

not like him, 
" Not like my Lancelot " — while she 

brooded thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts 

again, 
There rode an armed warrior to the 

doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nun- 
nery ran, 
Then on a sudden a cry " The King." 

She sat 
Stiff-stricken, listening; but when 

armed feet 
Thro' the long gallery from the outer 

doors 
Rang coming, prone from off her seat 

she fell. 
And grovell'd with her face against 

the floor : 
There with her milkwhite arms and 

shadowy hair 



She made her face a darkness from 

the Kiijg : 
And in the darkness heard his armed 

feet 
Pause by her; then came silence, then 

a voice. 
Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but tho' 

changed, the King's : 



" Liest thou here so low, the child 

of one 
I honor'd, happy, dead before thy 

shame 1 
Well is it that no child is born of 

thee. 
The children born of thee are sword 

and fire. 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of 

laws, 
The craft of kindred and the Godless 

hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern 

Sea; 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my 

right arm 
The mightiest of my knights, abode 

with me, 
Have everywhere about this land of 

Christ 
In twelve great battles ruining over- 
thrown. 
And knowest thou now from whence 

I come — from him. 
From waging bitter war with him : 

and he. 
That did not shun to smite me in 

worse way. 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him 

left, 
He spared to lift his hand against the 

King 
Who made him knight : but many a 

knight was slain; 
And many more, and all his kith and 

kin 
Clave to him, and abode in his own 

land. 
And many more when Modred raised 

revolt. 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, 

clave 
To Modred, and a remnant stays with 

me. 
And of this remnant will I leave a 

part, 
True men who love me still, for whom 

I live. 
To guard thee in the wild hour coming 

on, 
Lest but a hair of this low head be 

harm'd. 
Fear not : thou shalt be guarded till 

my death. 
Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 



314 



GUINEVERE. 



Have err'd not, that I march to meet 

my doom. 
Thou hast not made my life so sweet 

to me, 
That I the King should greatly care 

to live ; 
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of 

my life. 
Bear with me for the last time while 

» I show, 
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou 

hast sinn'd. 
For when the Roman left us, and 

their law 
Relax'd its hold upon us, and the 

ways 
Were fiU'd with rapine, here and there 

a deed 
Of prowess done redress'd a random 

wrong. 
But I was first of all the kings who 

drew 
The knighthood-errant of this realm 

and all 
The realms together under me, their 

Head, 
In that fair Order of my Table Round, 
A glorious company, the flower of 

men. 
To serve as model for the mighty 

world. 
And be the fair beginning of a time. 
I made tliem lay their hands in mine 

and swear 
To reverence the King, as if he were 
Their conscience, and their conscience 

as their King, 
To break the heathen and uphold the 

Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human 

wrongs. 
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to 

it, 
To honor his own word as if his 

God's, 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity. 
To love one maiden only, cleave to 

her. 
And worship her by years of noble 

deeds, 
Until they won her ; for indeed I 

knew 
Of no more subtle master under 

heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a 

maid. 
Not only to keep down the base in 

man, 
But teach high thought, and amiabl^ 

words 
And courtliness, and the desire of 

fame. 
And love of truth, and all that makes 

a man. 
And all this throve before I wedded 
thee. 



Believing, ' lo mine helpmate, one to 

feel 
My purpose and rejoicing in my 

joy.' 
Then came thy shameful sin with 

Lancelot; 
Then came the sin of Tristram and 

Isolt; 
Then others, following these my 

mightiest knights, 
And drawing foul ensample from fair 

names, 
Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite 
Of all my heart had destined did ob- 
tain. 
And all tliro' thee ! so that this life of 

mine 
I guard as God's high gift from scathe 

and wrong. 
Not greatly care to lose ; but rather 

think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should he 

live, 
To sit once more within his lonely 

hall. 
And miss the wonted number of my 

knights. 
And miss to hear liigh talk of noble 

deeds 
As in the golden days before thy sin. 
For which of us, who might be left, 

could speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance 

at thee'? 
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of 

Usk 
Thy shadow still would glide from 

room to room. 
And I should evermore be vext with 

thee 
In hanging robe or vacant orna- 
ment, 
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the 

stair. 
For think not, tho' thou wouldst not 

love thy lord, 
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for 

thee. 
I am not made of so slight elements. 
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy 

shame. 
I hold that man the worst of public 

foes 
Who either for his own or children's 

sake. 
To save his blood from scandal, lets 

the wife 
Whom lie knows false, abide and rule 

the house: 
For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
Her station, taken everywhere for 

pure. 
She like a new disease, unknown to 

men, 
Creeps, no precaution used, among the 
crowd. 



GUINEVERE. 



Si- 



Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, 

and saps 
The fealty of our friends, and stirs tlie 

pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half 

the young. 
Worst of the worst were tlvat man he 

that reigns ! 
Better the King's waste heartli and 

aching heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of 

light, 
The mockery of my people, and their 

bane." 

He paused, ^nd in the pause she 
crept an inch 

Nearer, and laid her hands about his 
feet. 

Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 

Then waiting by the doors the war- 
horse neigh'd 

As at a friend's voice, and he spake 
again : 

" Yet think not that I come to urge 

thy crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast jjity almost makes me 

die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden 

head. 
My pride in hapjiier summers, at my 

feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts 

on the fierce law. 
The doom of treason and the Hauiing 

death, 
(When first I learnt thee hidden here) 

is past. 
The pang — which while 1 weigh'd thy 

heart with one 
Too wholly true to dream untruth in 

thee, 
Made my tears burn — is also past — 

in part. 
And all is past, the sin is sinn'd,and I, 
Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives : do thou for thine own soul 

the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I 

loved "? 

golden hair, with which I used to 

play • 
Not knowing! O imperial-moulded 

form, 
And beauty such as never woman 

wore. 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with 

thee — 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not 

mine, 
But Lancelot's : na^', tlicy never were 

the King's. 
I cannot take thy h;ind ; that too is 

flesh. 



And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; 

and mine own flesh. 
Here looking down on thine polluted, 

cries 
'I loathe thee : ' yet not less, Guine- 
vere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee. 
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into 

my life 
So far, that my doom is, I love thee 

still. 
Let no man dream but that I love thee 

still. 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy 

soul. 
And so thou lean on our fair father 

Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are 

pure 
We two may meet before high God, 

and thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, 

and know 
I am thine husband — not a smaller 

soul, 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me 

that, 
I charge thee, my last hope. Now 

must I hence. 
Thro' the thick night I hear the trum- 
pet blow : 
They summon me their King to lead 

mine hosts 
Far down to that great battle in the 

west. 
Where I must strike against the man 

they call 
My sister's son — no kin of mine, who 

leagues 
With Lords of the White Horse, 

heathen, and knights, 
Traitors — and strike him dead, and 

meet myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious 

doom. 
And thou remaining here wilt learn 

the event; 
But hither shall I never come again. 
Never lie by thy side ; see thee no 

more — 
Farewell ! " 

And while she grovell'd at his feet, 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er 

her neck. 
And in the darkness o'er her fallen 

head. 
Perceived the waving of his hands 

that blest. 

Then, listening till those armed 
steps were gone, 

Rose the pale Queen, and in her an- 
guish found 

The casement : " peradventure," so 
she thought, 



3l6 



GUINEVERE. 



" If I might see his face, and not be 

seen." 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the 

door! 
And near liim the sad nuns with each 

a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about 

the Queen, 
To guard and foster her for evermore. 



And while he spake to these his helm 

was lower'd, 
To which for crest the golden dragon 

clung 
Of Britain ; so she did not sec tlie face, 
Whicii tlien was as an angel's, but she 

saw. 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the 

lights, 




"And lo, he sat on horseback 
And near him the sad nuns 



at the door ! 

with each a light." 



The Dragon of the great Pendragon- 

ship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam 

of fire. 
And even then he turn'd ; and more 

and more 
The moony vapor rolling round the 

King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant 

in it, 
Enwound him fold by fold, and made 

him gray . 
And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, moving ghostlike to his 

doom. 



Then she stretch'd out her arms and 

cried aloud 
" Oh Arthur ! " there l^^r voice brake 

suddenly, 
Then — as a stream that spouting from 

a cliff 
Fails in mid air, but gathering at the 

base 
Re-makes itself, and flashes down the 

vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance : 

"Gone — my lord.' 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be 
slain ! 



GUhWEVERE. 



317 



And he forgave me, and I could nut 

speak. 
Farewell ? I should have answer'd 

his farewell. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord 

the King, 
My own true lord ! how dare I call 

him mine '\ 
The shadow of another cleaves to 

me, 
And makes me one jioUution : he, the 

King, 
Call'd me polluted: shall I kill my- 
self T 
What help in that ? I cannot kill my 

sin. 
If soul be soul; nor can I kill my 

shame ; 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks 

to months. 
The months will add themselves and 

make the years. 
The years will roll into the centuries, 
And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 
I must not dwell on tliat defeat of 

fame. 
Let the world be ; that is but of the 

world 
What else % what hope ? I think there 

was a hope. 
Except he mock'd me when he spake 

of hope ; 
His hope he call'd it ; but he never 

mocks. 
For mockery is the fume of little 

hearts. 
And blessed be the King, who hath 

forgiven 
My wickedness to him, and left me 

hope 
That in mine own heart I can live 

down sin 
And be his mate hereafter in the 

heavens 
Before high God. Ah great and gen- 
tle lord. 
Who wast, as is the conscience of a 

saint 
Among his warring senses, to thy 

knights — 
To whom my false voluptuous pride, 

that took 
Full easily all impressions from be- 
low. 
Would not look up, or half-despised 

the height 
To which I would not or I could not 

climb — 
I thought I could not breathe in that 

fine air 
That pure severity of perfect light — 
I wanted warmth and color which I 

found 
In Lancelot — now I see thee what 

thou art. 



Thou art the highest and most human 

too. 
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there 

none 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so 

late? 
Now — ere he goes to the great Bat- 
tle ? none : 
Myself must tell him in that purer 

life, 
But now it were too daring. Ah my 

God, 
What might I not have made of thy 

fair world. 
Had I but loved thy highest creature 

here ? 
It was my duty to have loved the 

highest : 
It surely was my profit had I 

known : 
It would have been my pleasure had 

I seen. 
We needs must love the highest when 

we see it, 
Not Lancelot, nor another." 



Here her hand 

Grasp'd, made her vail her eyes : she 
look'd and saw 

The novice, weeping, suppliant, and 
said to lier, 

" Yea, little maid, for am / not for- 
given ? " 

Then glancing up beheld the holy 
nuns 

All round her, weeping ; and her heart 
was loosed 

Within her, and she wept with these 
and said, 



" Ye know me then, that wicked 
one, who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the 
King. 

shut me round with narrowing 

nunnery walls. 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying 
' shame.' 

1 must not scorn myself : he loves me 

still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves 

me still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at 

me. 
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with 

you; 
Wear black and white, and be a nun 

like you. 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting witli 

your feasts ; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving 

at your joys, 
But not rejoicing; mingle with your 

rites ; 



318 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



Pray and be pray'd for; lie before 

your shrines ; 
Do each low office of your holy 

house ; 
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute 

dole 
To poor sick people, richer in His 

eyes 
Who ransom'd us, and haler too than 

I; 
And treat their loathsome hurts and 

heal mine own ; 
And so wear out in almsdeed and in 

prayer 
The sombre close of that voluptuous 

day, 
Whicli wrought the ruin of my lord 

the King." 

End of " The Mound Table 



She said : they took her to them- 
selves ; and she 
Still hoping, fearing "is it yet too 

late 'I-. " 
Dwelt with them, till in time their 

Abbess died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her 

pure life, 
And for the power of ministration in 

her. 
And likewise for the high rank she 

had borne. 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, 

lived 
For three brief years, and there, an 

Abbess, past 
To where beyond these voices there 

is peace. 



THE PASSTXr, OF ARTHUR. 



That story which the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere. 
First made and latest left of all the 

knights. 
Told, when the man was no more than 

a voice 
In the white winter of his age, to 

those 
With whom he dwelt, new faces, 

other minds. 

For on their march to westward, 
Bedivere, 

Who slowly paced among the slumber- 
ing liost. 

Heard in his tent the moanings of the 
King : 

" I found Him in the shining of the 

stars, 
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His 

fields, 
But in His ways with men I find Him 

not. 
I waged His wars, and now I pass and 

die. 
() me ! for why is all around us 

here 
As if some lesser god had made the 

world, 
But had not force to shape it as he 

would. 
Till the High God behold it from be- 
yond. 
And enter it, and make it beautiful ? 
f)r else as if the world were wholly 

fair. 
But that these eyes of men are dense 

and dim. 
And have not power to see it as it is : 
Perchance, because we see not to the 

close ; — 



For I, being simple, thought to work 

His will, 
And have but stricken with the sword 

in vain ; 
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and 

friend 
Is traitor to my peace, and all my 

realm 
Reels back into the beast, and is no 

more. 
My God, thou hast forgotten me in 

my death : 
Nay — God my Christ — I pass but 

shall not die." 



Then, ere thqt last weird battle in 

the west. 
There came on Arthur sleeping, Ga- 

wain kill'd 
In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain 

blown 
Along a wandering wind, and past his 

ear 
Went shrilling, "Hollow, hollow all 

delight ! 
Hail, King ! to-morrow thou shall pass 

away. 
Farewell ! there is an isle of rest for 

thee. 
And I am blown along a wandering 

wind, 
And hollow, hollow, hollow all de- 
light." 
And fainter onward, like wild birds 

that change 
Their season in the night and wail 

their way 
From cloud to cloud, down the long 

wind the dream 
Shrill'd ; but in going mingled with 

dim cries 



THE PASSING OF ART 11 UK. 



319 



Far in the moonlit haze among the 

hills, 
As of some lonely city sack'd by 

night, 
When all is lost, and wife and child 

with wail 
Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke 

and call'd, 
" Who spake ? A dream. O light 

upon the wind, 
Thine, Gawain, was the voice — are 

these dim cries 
Thine ? or doth all that haunts the 

waste and wild 
Mourn, knowing it will go along with 

me ; " 

This heard the bold Sir Bedivere 

and spake : 
"O me, my King, let pass whatever 

will, 
Elves, and the harmless glamour of 

the field ; 
But in their stead thy name and glory 

cling 
To all high places like a golden cloud 
For ever : but as yet thou shalt not 

pass. 
Light was Gawain in life, and light in 

death 
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the 

man ; 
And care not thou for dreams from 

him, but rise — 
I hear the steps of Modred in tlie 

west. 
And with him many of thy people, 

and knights 
Once thine, whom thou hast loved, 

but grosser grown 
Than heathen, spitting at their vows 

and thee. 
Eight well in heart they know thee 

for the King. 
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old." 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
"Far other is this battle in the west 
Whereto we move, than when we 

strove in youth, 
And brake the petty kings, and fought 

with Kome, 
< )r thrust the heathen from the Roman 

wall, 
And shook him thro' the north. Ill 

doom is mine 
To war against my people and my 

knights. 
The king who fights his people fights 

himself. 
And they my knights, who loved me 

once, the stroke 
That strikes them dead is as my death 

to me. 



Yet let us hence, and find or feel a 

way 
Thro' this blind haze, which ever 

since I saw 
One lying in the dust at Almesbury, 
Hath folded in the passes of the 

world." 

Then rose the King and moved his 

host by night. 
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league 

by league. 
Back to the sunset bound of Lyon- 

nesse — 
A land of old upheavenfrom the abyss 
By fire, to sink into the abyss again ; 
Where fragments of forgotten peoples 

dwelt. 
And the long mountains ended in a 

coast 
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 
The phantom circle of a moaning sea. 
There the pursuer could pursue no 

more. 
And he that fled no further fly the 

King ; 
And there, that day when the great 

light, of heaven 
Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling 

year. 
On the waste sand by the waste sea 

they closed. 
Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a 

fight 
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the 

west. 
A deathwhite mist slept over sand and 

sea : 
Whereof the chill, to him who breathed 

it, drew 
Down with his blood, till all his heart 

was cold 
With formless fear ; and ev'n on 

Arthur fell 
Confusion, since he saw not whom he 

fought. 
For friend and foe were shadows in 

the mist. 
And friend slew friend not knowing 

whom he slew ; 
And some had visions out of golden 

youth. 
And some beheld the faces of old 

ghosts 
Look in upon the battle ; and in the 

mist 
Was many a noble deed, many a 

base. 
And chance and craft and strength in 

single fights, 
And ever and anon with host to 

host 
Shocks, and the splintering spear, the 

hard mail hewn, 
Shield-breakings, and the clash of 

brands, the crash 



320 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



Of battle-axes on shatter'd helms, and 

shrieks 
After the Christ, of those who falling 

down 
Look'd up for heaven, and only saw 

the mist ; 
And shouts of heathen and the traitor 

kniglits, 
Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous 

blasphemies. 
Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of 

the lungs 
In that close mist, and cryings for the 

light. 
Moans of the dying, and voices of the 

dead. 

Last, as by some one deathbed after 

wail 
Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' 

death 
Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that 

shore. 
Save for some whisper of the seething 

seas, 
A dead hush fell ; but when the dolo- 
rous day 
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, 

came 
A bitter wind, clear from the North, 

and blew 
The mist aside, and with that wind the 

tide 
Kose, and the pale King glanced 

across the field 
Of battle : but no man was moving 

there ; 
Nor any cry of Christian heard 

thereon. 
Nor yet of heathen ; only the wan 

wave 
Brake in among dead faces, to and 

fro 
Swaying the helpless hands, and up 

and down 
Tumbling the hollow helmets of the 

fallen, 
And shiver'd brands that once had 

fought -vvith Rome, 
And rolling far along the gloomy 

shores 
The voice of days of old and days to 

be. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere, 
And whiter than the mist that all day 

long 
Had held the field of battle was the 

King : 

" Hearest thou this great voice that 

sliakes the world. 
And wastes the narrow realm whereon 

we move. 
And beats upon the faces of the dead. 



My dead, as tho' they had not died 

for me ? — 
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath 

fall'n 
Confusion, till I know not what I am. 
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be 

King. 
Behold, I seem but King :nnong the 

dead." 

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere : 

" My King, 
King everywhere! and so the dead 

have kings. 
There also will 1 worship thee as King. 
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I 

live 
Who love thee ; but who hates thee, 

he that brought 
The heathen back among us, yonder 

stands, 
Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine 

house." 

Then spake the King : " My house 

hath been my doom. 
But call not thou this traitor of my 

house 
Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof 

with me. 
My house are rather they who sware 

my vows, 
Yea, even while they brake them, 

own'd me King. 
And well for thee, saying in my dark 

hour, 
When all the purport of my throne 

hath fail'd. 
That quick or dead thou boldest me 

for King. 
King am I, whatsoever be their cry ; 
And one last act of kinghood shalt 

thou see 
Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this 

the King 
Made at the man : then Modred smote 

his liege 
Hard on that helm which many a 

heathen sword 
Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one 

blow. 
Striking tlie last stroke with Excali- 

bur. 
Slew him, and all but slain himself, 

he fell. 

So all day long the noise of battle 

roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter 

sea ; 
Until King Arthur's Table, man by 

man. 
Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their 

lord, 
King Arthur. Then, because his 

wound was deep, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



321 



The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted liim, 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the 

field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren 

land: 



On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was 
full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir 
Bedivere : 




" An arm 
Rose up from out the hosom of the lake. 
Clothed in ichite samite, mystic, wonderful, 
Holding the sivord." 



" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous 

knights 
Whereof this world holds record. 

Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I 

think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time. 



Delight our souls with talk of knight- 
ly deeds, 

"Walking about the gardens and the 
halls 

Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 

I perish by this people which I made, — 

Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 
again 



322 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



To rule once more ; but, let what will 

be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till 

morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excal- 

libur, 
Which was my pride; for thou re- 

memberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, 

an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd 

across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a 

king ; 
And, wheresoever I am sung or 

told 
In af tertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And tiing him far into the middle 

mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly 

bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere: 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee 

thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' 

the helm — 
A little thing may harm a wounded 

man ; 
Yet I thy best will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring 

thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine 
he stept, 

And in the moon athwart the place of 
tombs. 

Where lay the mighty bones of an- 
cient men, 

Old knights, and over them the sea- 
wind sang 

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 
stepping down 

By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed 
rock. 

Came on the shining levels of the 
lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Ex- 
calibur, 

And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 
moon, 

Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 
ran forth 

And sparkled keen with frost against 
the hilt : 

For all the haft twinkled with dia- 
mond si)arks, 



Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- 
work 

Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so 
long 

That both his eyes were dazzled as he 
stood, 

This way and that dividing the swift 
mind. 

In act to throw : but at the last it 
seem'd 

Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 

There in the many-knotted waterflags. 

That whistled stiff and dry about the 
marge. 

So strode he back slow to the wound- 
ed King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bed- 

ivere : 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission 

which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen"? or what 

hast heard 1 " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bed- 

ivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the 

reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the 

crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint 

and pale : 
" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and 

thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as be- 

seem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: 
For surer sign had followed, either 

hand. 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go 

again. 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the 

thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring 

me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second 

time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside 

the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the 

hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, 

he smote 
His palms together, and he cried 

aloud : 

" And if indeed I cast the brand 
away. 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy- 
note, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



323 



Should thus be lost for ever from the 

earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes 

of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this 

were done ? 
What harm, undone ? Deep harm to 
* disobey. 

Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king 

demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
The King is sick, and knows not what 

he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertinie, but empty 

breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? But were 

this kei^t. 
Stored in some treasure-house of 

mighty kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of 

arms. 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excali- 

bur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the 

Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in 

the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame 

were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own 
conceit. 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wound- 
ed King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breath- 
ing heavily : 
" What is it thou hast seen 1 or what 
hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 
"I heard the water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the 
reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, 

much in wrath : 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is 

me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bowed the will. I see thee what 

thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my 

knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 



Thou wouldst betray me for the pre- 
cious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the 

eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 
And the third time may prosper, get 

thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my 
hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, 
and ran. 

And, leaj)ing down the ridges lightly, 
plunged 

Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd 
the sword, 

And strongly wheel'd and threw it. 
The great brand 

Made lightnings in the splendor of 
the moon. 

And flashing round and round, and 
whirl'd in an arch. 

Shot like a streamer of the iiorthern 
morn. 

Seen where the moving isles of win- 
ter shock 

By night, with noises of the Northern 
Sea. 

So flash'd and fell the brand Ex- 
calibur : 

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an 
arm 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 

And caught him by the hilt, and 
brandish'd him 

Three times, and drew him under in 
the mere. 

And lightly went the other to the 
King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath: 
" Nov/ see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, 

or seen % " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bed- 
ivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 

the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never 

saw. 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till 

I die. 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal 

men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, 

wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an 

arm. 



324 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 

That cauglit him by the hilt, and 
brandish'd him 

Three times, and drew him under in 
the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, 

breathing hard : 
" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that 

I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive 

my weight. 
And bear me to the margin; yet I 

fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I 

shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he 

half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his 

arm, 
And looking wistfully with Avide blue 

eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found 

not words ; 
Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- 
guid hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place 

of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur 

panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on 

his bed 
When all the house is mute. So 

sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

" Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from 

ridge to ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, 

as he walk'd. 
Larger than human on the frozen 

hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

cry 
Before. His own thought drove him 

like a goad. 
Dry clash'd Jiis harness in the icy 

caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left 

and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round 

him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 



And the long glories of the winter 
moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a 

dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to 

stern. 
Beneath them; and descending they 

were ware 
That all the decks were dense with 

stately forms, 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a 

dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold: 

and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling 

stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that 

shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no 

one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of 

the world. 

Then murmur 'd Arthur, "Place me 

in the barge." 
So to the barge they bame. There 

those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the 

King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them 

all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her 

lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands. 
And call'd him by his name, complain- 
ing loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against a 

brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his 

face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd 

moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the 

springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 

with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 

curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising 

sun 
High from the dais-throne — were 

parch'd with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging 

loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the 

King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance 

in rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tourna- 
ment, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



32S 



Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 

charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir 

Bedivere : 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall 

I go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and 

my eyes ? 
For nowl see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the 

light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of 

myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is 

dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty 

world. 
And I, the last, go forth companion- 
less, 
And the days darken round me, and 

the years. 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds." 

And slowly answer'd Arthur from 

the barge : 
"The old order changeth, yielding 

place to new. 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt 

the world. 
Comfortthyself : whatcomfortisinrae? 
I have lived my life, and that Avhich 

I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! 

but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face 

again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Where- 
fore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and 

day. 
For what are men better than sheep 

or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the 

brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands 

of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who 

call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every 

way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet 

of God. 
But now f *ewell. I am going a long 

way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go 



(For all my mind is clouded with a 
doubt) — 

To the island-valley of Avilion ; 

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any 
snow. 

Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it 
lies 

Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with or- 
chard lawns 

And bowery hollows crown'd with 
summer sea. 

Where I will heal me of my grievous 
wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar 
and sail 

Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 
the flood 

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving many memories, till the hull 

Look'd one black dot against the verge 
of dawn, 

And on the mere the wailing died away. 

But when that moan had past for 
evermore, 

The stillness of the dead world's win- 
ter dawn 

Amazed him, and he groan'd, "The 
King is gone." 

And therewithal came on him the weird 
rhj^me, 

"From the great deep to the great 
deep he goes." 

Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly 

clomb 
The last hard footstep of that iron 

crag; 
Thence mark'd the black hull moving 

yet, and cried, 
" He passes to be King among the 

dead, 
And after healing of his grievous 

wound 
He comes again ; but — if he come no 

more-=— 
O me, be yon dark Queens in yon 

black boat. 
Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three 

whereat we gazed 
On that high day, when, clothed with 

living light, 
They stood before his throne in si- 
lence, friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at his 

need ? " 

Then from the dawn it seem'd there 
came, but faint 
As from beyond the limit of the world. 
Like the last echo born of a great cry, 



326 



TO THE QUEEN. 



Sounds, as if some fair city were one 

voice 
Around a king returning from his wars. 

Tliercat once more he moved about, 

and clonib 
Ev'n to the highest he could climb, 

and saw, 
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of 

hand, 



Or thought he saw, the speck that 

bare the King, 
Down that long water opening on the 

deep 
Somewliere far off, pass on and on, 

and go 
From less to less and vanish into 

light. 
And the new sun rose bringing the new 

year. 



TO THE QUEEN. 



O LOYAL to the royal in thyself. 
And loyal to thy land, as this to 

thee 

Bear witness, tliat rememberable day, 
"When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the 

Prince 
Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering 

life again 
From halfway down the shadow of 

the grave. 
Past with thee thro' thy people and 

their love, 
And London roll'd one tide of joy 

thro' all 
Her trebled millions, and loud leagues 

of man 
And welcome ! witness, too, the silent 

cry, 
The prayer of many a race and creed, 

and clime — 
Thunderless lightnings striking under 

sea 
From sunset and sunrise of all thy 

realm. 
And that true North, whereof we lately 

heard 
A strain to shame us " keep you to 

yourselves ; 
So loyal is too costly ! friends — your 

love 
Is but a burthen : loose the bond, and 

go." 
Is this the tone of empire ■? here the 

faith 
That made us rulers ? this, indeed, 

her voice 
And meaning, whom the roar of Hou- 

goumont 
Left mightiest of all peoples under 

heaven ? 
What shock has fool'd her since, that 

she should speak 
So feebly ? wealthier — wealthier — 

hour by hour! 
The voice of Britain, or a sinking land. 
Some third-rate isle half-lost among 

her seas ? 
There rang her voice, when the full 

city peal'd 
Thee and thy Prince ! The loyal to 

their crown 



Are loj'al to their own far sons, who 

love 
Our ocean-empire with her boundless 

homes 
For ever-broadening England, and her 

throne 
In our vast Orient, and one isle, one 

isle. 
That knows not her own greatness : if 

she knows 
And dreads it we are f all'n. But 

thou, my Queen, 
Not for itself, but thro' thj^ living love 
For one to whom I made it o'er his 

grave 
Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, 
New-old, and shadowing Sense at war 

with Soul 
Rather than that gray king, whose 

name, a ghost. 
Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, 

from mountain peak. 
And cleaves to cairn and cromlech 

still ; or him 
Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malle- 

or's, one 
Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a 

time 
That hover'd between war and wan- 
tonness. 
And crownings and dethronements : 

take withal 
Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that 

Heaven 
Will blow the tempest in the distance 

back 
From thine and ours : for some are 

scared, who mark. 
Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm, 
Waverings of every vane with every 

wind. 
And wordy trucklings to the transient 

hour. 
And fierce or careless looseners of the 

faith, 
And Softness breeding scorn of simple 

life, 
Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, 
Or Labor, with a groan andfiot a voice, 
Or Art with poisonous honey stol'n 

from France, 



TO THE QUEEN. 



327 



And that which knows, but careful for 
itself, 

And that which knows not, ruling that 
which knows 

To its own harm : the goal of this 
great world 

Lies beyond sight : yet — if our slowly- 
grown 

And crown'd Republic's crowning 
common-sense, 



That saved her many times, not fail — 

their fears 
Are morning shadows huger than the 

shapes 
That cast them, not those gloomier 

which forego 
The darkness of that battle in the 

West, 
Where all of high and holy dies 

away. 



THE PRi:^CESSfl03jft>l 



A MEDLEY. 



PROLOGUE. 

Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's 

day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of 

sun 
Up to the people : thither flock'd at 

noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and 

thither half 
The neighboring borough with their 

Institute 
Of which he was the patron. I was 

there 
From college, visiting the son, — the 

son 
A Walter too, — with others of our 

set. 
Five others : we were seven at Vivian- 
place. 

And me that morning Walter 

show'd the house, 
Greek, set with busts : from vases in 

the hall 
Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier 

than their names. 
Grew side by side ; and on the pave- 
ment lay 
Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the 

park. 
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones 

of Time ; 
And on the tables every clime and 

age 
Jumbled together; celts and calumets, 
Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, 

fans 
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in 

sphere, 
The cursed Malayan crease, and 

battle-clubs 
From the isles of palm : and higher on 

the walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk 

and deer, 
His own forefathers' arms and armor 

hung. 

And " this " he said " was Hugh's at 
Aginconrt ; 



And that was old Sir Ralph's at As- 

calon : 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him" — which he 

brought, and I 
Dived in a hoard of talcs that dealt 

with knights. 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts and 

kings 
Who laid about them at their wills 

and died; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that 

arni'd 
Her own fair liead, and sallying thro' 

the gate. 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from 

her walls. 

" miracle of women," said the 

book, 
"0 noble heart who, being strait- 
besieged 
By this wild king to force her to his 

wish. 
Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a 

soldier's death. 
But now when all was lost or seem'd 

as lost — 
Her stature more than mortal in the 

burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on 

fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from 

the gate. 
And, falling on them like a thunder- 
bolt, 
She trampled some beneath her 

horses' heels. 
And some were whelm'd with missiles 

of the wall. 
And some were push'd with lances 

from the rock, 
And part were drown'd within the 

whirling brook : 
O miracle of noble womanhood ! " 

So sang the gallant glorious chroni- 
cle; 

And, I all rapt in this, " Come out," 
he said, 

" To the Abbey : there is Aunt Eliza- 
beth 



THE PR IXC ESS; A MEDLEY. 



329 



And sister Lilia with tlie rest." We 

went 
(I kept the book and had my finger 

in it) 
Down tliro' the park : strange was the 

sight to me ; 
For all the sloping pasture niurmm-'d, 

sown 
With happy faces and with holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thou- 
sand heads : 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Taught them with facts. One rear'd 

a font of stone 
And drew, from butts of water on the 

slope, 
The fountain of the moment, playing, 

now 
A twisted snake, and now a rain of 

pearls, 
Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded 

ball 
Danced like a wisp : and somewhat 

lower down 
A man with knobs and wires and vials 

fired 
A cannon: Echo answer'd in her 

sleep 
From hollow fields : and here were 

telescopes 
For azure views ; and there a grouj) 

of girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric 

shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter : 

round the lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling 

plied 
And shook the lilies : perch'd about 

the knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam : 
A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 
Eose gem-like up before the dusky 

groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and 

past : 
And there thro' twent}' posts of tele- 
graph 
They flash'd a saucy message to and 

fro 
Between the mimic stations ; so that 

sport 
Went hand in hand with Science ; 

otherwhere 
Pure sport : a herd of boys with 

clamor bowl'd 
And stump'd the wicket; babies roU'd 

about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men 

and maids 
Arranged a country dance, and flew 

thro' light 
And shadovr, while the twangling 

violin 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and 

overhead 



The broad ambrosial aisles of loft3- 

lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze from 

end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking 

of the time ; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at 

length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and 

ivy-claspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a 

fire, 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and 

frost they gave 
The park, the crowd, the house ; but 

all within 
The sward was trim as any garden 

lawn : 
And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady 

friends 
From neighbor seats : and there was 

Ealjih himself, 
A broken statue propt against the wall. 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport, 
Half child half woman as she was, 

had wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony 

helm. 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, 
That made the old warrior from his 

ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb 

a feast 
Shone, silver-set ; about it lay the 

guests. 
And there we join'd them : then the 

maiden Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from 

it preach'd 
An universal culture for the crowd. 
And all things great; but we, un- 

worthier, told 
Of college : he had climb'd across the 

spikes, 
And he had squeezed himself betwixt 

the bars, 
And he had breath'd the Proctor's 

dogs ; and one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common 

men, 
But honeying at the whisper of a lord ; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in 

grain 
Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their 

heads I saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad ; which 

brought 
My book to mind : and opening this I 

read 
Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that 

rang 



330 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



"With tilt and tourney ; then the tale 

of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter 

from her walls, 
And much I praised her nobleness, 

and " Where," 
Ask'd "Walter, patting Lilia's head 

(she lay 
Beside him) " lives there such a 

woman now ? " 

Quick answer'd Lilia " There are 

thousands now 
Such women, but convention beats 

them down : 
It is but bringing up ; no more than 

that : 
You men have done it : how I hate 

you all ! 
Ah, were I something great ! I wish I 

were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame 

you then, 
That love to keep us children ! O I 

wish 
That I were some great princess, I 

Avould build 
Far off from men a college like a 

man's. 
And I would teach them all that men 

are taught; 
We are twice as quick ! " And here 

she shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with 

her curls. 

And one said smiling " Pretty were 

the siglit 
If our old lialls could change their 

sex, and flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers 

for deans. 
And sweet girl-graduates in their 

golden hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty 

gowns, 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths, 

or Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner; yet I 

fear. 
If there were many Lilias in the brood, 
However deep you might embower the 

nest, 
Some boy would spy it." 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot : 
"That's your light way; but I would 

make it death 
For any male thing but to peep at us." 

Petulant she spoke, and at herself 
she laugh'd ; 
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns. 
And sweet as English air could make 
her, she : 



But Walter hail'd a score of names 
upon her. 

And " petty Ogress," and " ungrateful 
Puss," 

And swore he long'd at college, 
only long'd. 

All else was well, for she-society. 

They boated and tliey cricketed ; they 
talk'd 

At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; 

They lost tlieir weeks ; they vext the 
souls of deans ; 

They rode ; tlicy betted ; made a hun- 
dred friends. 

And caught the blossom of the flying 
terms. 

But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian- 
place, 

The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus 
he spoke, 

Part banter, part affection. 

"True," she said, 

" We doubt not that. yes, you 
miss'd us much. 

I'll stake my ruby ring upon it you 
did." 

She held it out; and as a jiarrot 

turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye. 
And takes a lady's finger with all care. 
And bites it for true heart and not for 

harm. 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she 

shriek'd 
And wrung it. " Doubt my word 

again! " he said. 
" Come, listen ! here is proof that you 

were miss'd : 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to 

read; 
And there we took one tutor as to 

read : 
The hard-grain'd Muses of tlie cube 

and square 
Were out of season : never man, I 

tl)ink. 
So moulder 'd in a sinecure as 

he: 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty 

feet. 
And our long walks were stript as bare 

as brooms. 
We did but talk you over, pledge you 

all 
In wassail ; often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of 

liome — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas 

here. 
And what's nii/ t/iour/ht and tvhen and 

ichcre and hoio, 
And often told a tale from moutii to 

mouth 
As here at Christmas." 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



331 



She remember'd that : 
A pleasant game, she thought : she 

liked it more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the 

rest. 
But these — what kind of tales did 

men tell men. 
She wonder'd by themselves ? 

A half-disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her 

lips : 
And Walter nodded at me ; " He 

began, 
The rest would follow, each in turn ; 

and so 
"We forged a sevenfold story. Kind ? 

what kind "? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas sole- 
cisms, 
Seven-headed monsters only made to 

kill 
Time by the fire in winter." 

" Kill him now. 
The tyrant! kill him in the summer 

too," 
Said Lilia ; " Why not now ? " the 

maiden Aunt. 
" Why not a summer's as a winter's 

tale % 
A tale for summer as befits the time. 
And something it should be to suit the 

place. 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath. 
Grave, solemn ! " 

Walter warp'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I 

laugh'd 
And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling 

mirth 
An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, 
Hid in the ruins ; till the maiden 

Aunt 
(A little sense of wrong had touch'd 

her face 
With color) turn'd to me with "As 

you will ; 
Heroic if you will, or what you will. 
Or be yourself your hero if you will." 

"Take Lilia, then, for heroine" 
clamor'd he, 
" And make her some great Princess, 

six feet high. 
Grand, epic, liomicidal ; and be you 
The Prince to win her ! " 

" Then follow me, the Prince," 
I answer'd, " each be hero in his turn ! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a 

dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as re- 
quired — 
But something made to suit with Time 

and place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 



A feudal knight in silken masquerade. 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange ex- 
periments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had 

burnt them all — 
This were a medley ! we should have 

him back 
Who told the ' Winter's tale ' to do it 

for us. 
No matter : we will say whatever 

comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will. 
From time to time, some ballad or a 

song 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began, 
And the rest f oUow'd : and the women 

sang 
Between the rougher voices of the 

men. 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : 
And here I give the story and the 

songs. 



A prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in 

face, 
Of temper amorous, as the first of 

May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a 

girl, 
For on my cradle shone the Northern 

star. 



There lived an ancient legend in 
our house. 

Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grand- 
sire burnt 

Because he cast no shadow, had fore- 
told, 

Dying, that none of all our blood 
should know 

The shadow from the substance, and 
that one 

Should come to fight with shadows 
and to fall. 

For so, my mother said, the story ran. 

And, truly, waking dreams were, more 
or less. 

An old and strange affection of the 
house. 

Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven 
knows what : 

On a sudden in the midst of men and 
day. 

And while I walk'd and talk'd as here- 
tofore, 

I seem'd to move among a world of 
ghosts, 

And feel myself the shadow of a 
dream. 

Our great court-Galen poised his gilt- 
head cane. 

And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd 
" catalepsy." 



332 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



My mother pitying made a thousand 

prayers ; 
My mother was as mild as any saint, 
Half-canonized by all that look'd on 

her, 
So gracious was her tact and tender- 
ness : 
But my good father thought a king a 

king ; 
He cared not for the affection of the 

house ; 
He held his sceptre like a pedant's 

wand 
To lash offence, and with long arms 

and hands 
Reach'd out, and pick'd offenders 

from the mass 
For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been, 
While life was yet in bud and blade, 

betroth 'd 
To one, a neighboring Princess : she 

to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 
At eight years old ; and still from 

time to time 
Came murmurs of her beauty from 

the South, 
And of her brethren, youths of puis- 
sance ; 
And still I wore her picture by my 

heart. 
And one dark tress ; and all around 

them both 
Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees 

about their queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that 

I should wed. 
My father sent ambassadors with 

furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her : these 

brought back 
A present, a great labor of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague as 

wind : 
Besides, they saw the king; he took 

the gifts ; 
He said there was a compact ; that 

was true : 
But then she had a will; was he to 

blame ? 
And maiden fancies ; loved to live 

alone 
Among her women ; certain, would 

not wed. 

That morning in the presence room 

I stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two 

friends : 
The first, a gentleman of broken means 
(His father's fault) but given to starts 

and bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heart. 



And almost my half-self, for still we 

moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and 

eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my 

father's face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising 

moon, 
Inflamed with wrath : he started on 

his feet, 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, 

and rent 
The wonder of the loom thro' warp 

and woof 
From skirt to skirt ; and at the last 

he sware 
That he would send a hundred thou- 
sand men. 
And bring her in a whirlwind : then 

he chew'd 
The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and 

cook'd his spleen. 
Communing with his captains of the 

war. 



At last I spoke. " My father, let me 

go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king, 
Whom all men rate as kind and hos- 
pitable : 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once 

seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less 

than fame. 
May rue the bargain .made." And 

Florian said : 
" I have a sister at the foreign court, 
Who moves about the Princess ; she, 

you know, 
Who wedded with a nobleman from 

thence : 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, 
The lady of three castles in that land : 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted 

clean." 
And Cyril whisper'd : " Take me with 

you too." 
Then laughing " what, if these weird 

seizures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one 

near 
To point you out the shadow from the 

triith ! 
Take me : I'll serve you better in a 

strait ; 
I grate on rusty hinges here : " but 

" No ! " 
Eoar'd the rough king, " you shall not ; 

we ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies 

dead 
In iron gauntlets : break the council 

up." 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



But when the council broke, I rose 

and past 
Thro' tlie wild woods that hung about 

the town ; 
Found a still place, and pluck'd her 

likeness out ; 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it 

lying bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd 

trees : 
What were those fancies ? wherefore 

break her troth ? 
Proud look'd the lips : but while I 

meditated 
A wind arose and rush'd upon the 

South, 
And shook the songs, the whispers, 

and the shrieks 
Of the wild woods together; and a 

Voice 
Went with it, " Follow, follow, thou 

shalt win." 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that 

month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from 

covn-t 
With Cyril and with Florian, unper- 

ceived, 
Cat-footed thro' the town and half in 

dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our 

backs 
With Ho ! from some bay-window 

shake the night ; 
But all was quiet : from the bastion'd 

walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we 

dropt, 
And flying reach'd the frontier : then 

we crost 
To a livelier land ; and so by tilth 

and grange, 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wil- 
derness, 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with 

towers, 
And in the imperial palace found the 

king. 

His name was Gama; crack'd and 
small his voice. 

But bland the smile that like a wrin- 
kling wind 

On glassy water drove his cheek in 
lines ; 

A little dry old man, without a star, 

Not like a king : three days he feasted 
us, 

And on the fourth I spake of why we 
came, 

And my betroth'd. " You do us. 
Prince," he said. 

Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, 

" All honor. We remember love our- 
selves 



Li our sweet youth : there did a com- 
pact pass 
Long summers back, a kind of cere- 
mony — 
I think the year in which our olives 

fail'd. 
I would you had her, prince, with all 

my heart, 
With my full heart : but there were 

widows here. 
Two widows, Lady Psyche, Lady 

Blanche ; 
They fed her theories, in and out of 

place 
Maintaining that with equal hus- 
bandry 
The woman were an equal to the man. 
They harp'd on this ; with this our 

banquets rang ; 
Our dances broke and buzz'din knots 

of talk ; 
Nothing but this ; my very ears were hot 
To hear them : knowledge, so my 

daughter held, 
Was all in all : they had but been, she 

thought, 
As children ; they must lose the child, 

assume 
The woman : then. Sir, awful odes she 

wrote. 
Too awful, sure, for what they treated 

of, 
But all she is and does is awful ; 

odes 
About this losing of the child ; and 

rhymes 
And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 
Be3'^ond all reason : these the women 

sang ; 
And tlie}^ that know such things — I 

sought but peace ; 
No critic I — would call them master- 
pieces : 
They master'd me. At last she begg'd 

a boon, 
A certain summer-palace which I 

have 
Hard by your father's frontier : I said 

no, 
Yet being an easy man, gave it : and 

there. 
All wild to found an University 
For maidens, on the spur she fled; 

and more 
We know not, — only this : they see 

no men, 
Not ev'n her brother Arac,nor the twins 
Her brethren, tho' they love her, look 

upon her 
As on a kind of paragon ; and I 
(Pardon me saying it) were much loth 

to breed 
Dispute betwixt myself and mine : but 

since 
(And I confess with right) you think 

me bound 



334 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



In some sort, I can give yon letters to 
her ; * 

And yet, to speak the truth, I rate 
your chance 

Ahnost as naked nothing." 

Tlius the king ; 

And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to 
slur 

With garrulous ease and oily courte- 
sies 

Our formal compact, yet, not less (all 
frets 

But chafing me on fire to find my 
bride) 

Went forth, again with both my 
friends. We rode 

Many a long league back to the North. 
At last 

From hills, that look'd across a land 
of hope, 

We dropt with evening on a rustic 
town 

Set in a gleaming river's crescent- 
curve. 

Close at the boundary of the liberties ; 

There, enter'd an old hostel, call'd 
mine host 

To council, plied him with his richest 
wines. 

And show'd the late-writ letters of 
the king. 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble ; then ex- 
claim 'd 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go : but as his brain 
Began to mellow, "If the king," he 

said, 
" Had given us letters, was he bound 

to speak "? 
The king would bear him out ; " and 

at the last — 
The summer of the vine in all his 

veins — 
" No doubt that we might make it 

worth his while. 
She once had passed that way; he 

heard her speak ; 
She scared him ; life ! he never saw 

the like ; 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and 

as grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady 

there ; 
He always made a point to post with 

mares ; 
His daughter and his housemaid were 

the boys : 
The land, he understood, for miles 

about 
Was till'd by women ; all the swine 

were sows, 
And all the dogs " — 

But while he jested thus. 



A thought flash'd thro' me which I 

clothed in act. 
Remembering how we three presented 

Maid 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide 

of feast. 
In masque or pageant at my father's 

court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female 

gear; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to 

shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, 

holp 
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden 

plumes 
We rustled : him we gave a costly 

bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good 

steeds. 
And boldly ventured on the liberties. 

We follow'd up the river as we 
rode, 

And rode till midnight when the col- 
lege lights 

Began to glitter firefly-like in copse 

And linden alley : then we past an 
arch. 

Whereon a woman-statue rose with 
wings 

From four wing'd horses dark against 
the stars ; 

And some inscription ran along the 
front. 

But deep in shadow : further on 
we gain'd 

A little street half garden and half 
house ; 

But scarce could hear each other 
speak for noise 

Of clocks and chimes, like silver ham- 
mers falling 

On silver anvils, and the splash and 
stir 

Of fountains spouted up and shower- 
ing down 

In meshes of the jasmine and the 
rose : 

And all about us peal'd the nightin- 
gale. 

Rapt in her song, and careless of the 
snare. 

There stood a bust of Pallas for a 
sign, 

By two sphere lamps blazon'd like 
Heaven and Earth 

With constellation and with con- 
tinent, 

Above an entry : riding in, we call'd ; 

A plump-arm'd Ostleress and a stable 
wench 

Came running at the call, and help'd 
us down. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



335 



Then stept a buxon hostess forth, 

and sail'd, 
Full-blown, before us into rooms which 

gave 
Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In laurel : her we ask'd of that and 

this, 
And who were tutors. " Lady 

Blanche," she said, 
"And Lady Psyche." "Which was 

prettiest, 
Best-natured ? " "Lady Psyche." 

" Hers are we," 
One voice, we cried ; and I sat down 

and wrote, 
Li such a hand as when a field of corn 
Bows all its ears before the roaring- 
East ; 
"Three ladies of the Northern emjiire 

pray 
Your Highness would enroll them with 

your own, 
As Lady Psyche's pupils." 

This I seal'd : 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll. 
And o'er liis head Uranian Venus hung, 
And rais'd the blinding bandage from 

his e3'es : 
I gave the letter to be sent with dawn ; 
And then to bed, where half in doze I 

seem'd 
To float about a glimmering night, 

and watch 
A full sea glazed with muffled moon- 
light, swell 
On some dark shore just seen that it 

was rich. 

II. 

As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O we fell out I know not why, 

And kiss'd again v.ith tears. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears, 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years. 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave. 

We kiss'd again with tears. 

At break of day the College Portress 

came : 
She brought us Academic silks, in hue 
The lilac, witli a silken hood to each. 
And zoned with gold ; and now wher. 

these were on. 
And we as rich as moths from dusk 

cocoons, 
She, courtesying her obeisance, let us 

know 
The Princess Ida waited : out we paced, 
I first, and following thro' the porch 

that sang 
All round with laurel, issued in a court 
Compact of lucid marbles, boss'd with 

lenijths 



Of classic frieze, with ample awnings 

gay * 

Betwixt the pillars, and with great 

urns of flowers. 
The Muses and the Graces, group'd in 

threes, 
Enring*d a billowing fountain in the 

midst ; 
And here and there on lattice edges 

lay 
Or book or lute ; but hastily we past, 
And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 

There at a board by tome and paper 
sat, 

With two tame leopards couch'd be- 
side her throne 

All beauty compass'd in a female form. 

The Princess ; liker to the inhabitant 

Of some clear planet close upon the 
Sun, 

Than our man's earth ; such eyes were 
in her head, 

And so much grace and power, breath- 
ing down 

From over her arch'd brows, with 
every turn 

Lived thro' her to the tips of her long 
hands. 

And to her feet. She rose her height, 
and said :, 

"We give you welcome: not with- 
out redound 

Of use and glory to yourselves ye 
come, 

The first-fruits of the stranger : after- 
time. 

And that full voice which circles round 
the grave, 

Will rank you nobly, mingled up with 
me. 

What ! are the ladies of your land so 
tall ? " 

" We of the court " said Cyril. " From 
the court " 

She answer'd, "then ye know the 
Prince "? " and he : 

"The climax of his age! as tho' there 
were 

One rose in all the world, your High- 
ness that. 

He worships your ideal : " she replied : 

" We scarcely thought in our om'u liall 
to hear 

This barren verbiage, current among 
men. 

Light coin, the tinsel clink of compli- 
ment. 

Your fliglit from out your bookless 
wilds would seem 

As arguing love of knowledge and of 
power ; 

Your language proves you still the 
child. Indeed, 



336 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



We dream not of him : when we set 

our hand 
To this great work, we purposed with 

ourself 
Never to wed. You likewise will do 

well, 
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and 

fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of 

men, that so. 
Some future time, if so indeed you will. 
You may with those self-styled our 

lords ally 
Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale 

with scale." 

At those high words, we conscious 

of ourselves. 
Perused the matting ; then an officer 
Rose up, and read the statutes, such 

as these : 
Not for three years to correspond with 

homo ; 
Not for three years to cross the liber- 
ties; 
Not for three years to speak with any 

men ; 
And many more, which hastily sub- 
scribed, 
"We enter'd on the boards : and " Now," 

she cried, 
" Ye are green M'ood, see ye warp not. 

Look, our hall ! 
Our statues ! — not of those that men 

desire, 
Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode. 
Nor stunted scjuaws of West or East ; 

but she 
That tauglit the Sabine liow to rule, 

and she 
The foundress of the Babylonian wall, 
Tlie Carian Artemisia strong in war. 
The Rhodope, that built the i^yramid, 
Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 
That fought Aurelian, and the Roman 

brows 
Of Agrijipina. Dwell with these, and 

lose 
Convention, since to look on noble 

forms 
Makes noble thro' the sensuous organ- 
ism 
That which is higher. O lift your 

natures up : 
Embrace our aims : work out your 

freedom. Girls, 
Knowledge is now no more a fountain 

seal'd : 
Drink deep, until the habits of the 

slave. 
The sins of emptiness, gossip and 

spite 
And slander, die. Better not be at all 
Than not be noble. Leave us : you 

may go : 
To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue 



The fresh arrivals of the week before; 

For they press in from all the prov- 
inces. 

And fill the hive." 

She sjjoke, and bowing waved 

Dismissal : back again we crost the 
court 

To Lady Psyche's : as Ave enter'd in. 

There sat along the forms, like morn- 
ing doves 

That sun their milky bosoms on the 
tliatch, 

A patient range of pupils ; she herself 

Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 

A quick brunette, well-moulded, fal- 
con-eyed. 

And on the hither side, or so she 
look'd. 

Of twenty summers. At her left, a 
child. 

In shining draperies, headed like a 
star. 

Her maiden babe, a double April 
old, 

Aglaia slept. We sat: the Lad}- 
glanced : 

Then Plorian, but no livelier than the 
dame 

That wliisper'd "Asses' ears," among 
the sedge, 

" Jly sister." " Comely, too, by all 
that's fair," 

Said Cyril. " O hush, hush ! " and 
she began. 



"This world was once a fluid haze 

of light. 
Till toward the centre set the starry 

tides, 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling 

cast 
The planets : then the monster, then 

tlie man; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in 

skins. 
Raw from the prime, and crushing 

down his mate ; 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and 

here 
Among the lowest." 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eye view of all the ungracious 

past ; 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke 

of those 
That lay at wine with Lar and Lucu- 

mo; 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Ro- 
man lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state in 

each, 
How far from just; till warming with 

her theme 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



337 



She fulmined out her scorn of laws 

Salique 
And little-footed China, toueh'd on 

Mahomet 
With much contempt, and came to 

chivalry : 
When some respect, however slight, 

was jiaid 
To woman, superstition all awry : 
However then commenced the dawn : 

a beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a 

land 
Of promise ; fruit would follow. Deep, 

indeed, 
Their debt of thanks to her who first 

had dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and 

assert 
None lordlier than themselves but 

that which made 
Woman and man. She had founded ; 

they must build. 
Here might they learn whatever men 

were taught : 
Let them not fear: some said their 

heads were less : 
Some men's were small ; not they the 

least of men ; 
For often fineness compensated size : 
Besides the brain was like the hand, 

and grew 
With using ; thence the man's, if more 

was more ; 
He took advantage of his strength to ' 

be 
First in the field : some ages had been 

lost; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her 

life 
Was longer; and albeit their glorious 

names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since 

in truth 
The highest is the measure of the man. 
And not the Kafiir, Hottentot, Malay, 
Nor those horn-handed breakers of 

the glebe, 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 
With woman : and in arts of govern- 
ment 
Elizabeth and others ; arts of war 
The peasant Joan and others ; arts of 

grace 
Sappho and others vied with any man ; 
And, last not least, she who had left 

her place. 
And bow'd her state to them, that they 

might grow 
To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 
In the arms of leisure, sacred from 

the blight 
Of ancient infiuence and scorn. 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy 



Dilating on the future ; " everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the 

liearth. 
Two in the tangled business of the 

world, 
Two in the liberal offices of life. 
Two phunmets dropt for one to sound 

the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the 

mind : 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, 

more : 
And everywhere the broad and boun- 
teous Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those 

rare souls. 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the 

blood of the world." 



She ended here, and beckon'd us : 
the rest 

Parted ; and, glowing full-faced wel- 
come, she 

Began to address us, and was moving 
on 

In gratulation, till as when a boat 

Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, 
all her voice 

Faltering and fluttering in her throat, 
she cried 

" My brother ! " " Well, my sister." 
" O," she said, 

" What do you here ? and in this 
dress ^ and these 1 

Why who are these ? a wolf within 
the fold ! 

A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gra- 
cious to me ! 

A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all ! " 

" No plot, no plot," he answer'd. 
" Wretched boy. 

How saw you not the inscription on 
the gate. 

Let no man enter in on pain of 

DEATH ? " 

" And if I had," he answer'd, " who 

could think 
The softer Adams of your Academe, 
sister, Sirens tho' they be, were 

such 
As chanted on the blanching bones of 

men ? " 
" But you will find it otherwise " she 

said. 
" You jest : ill jesting with edge-tools ! 

my vow 
Binds me to speak, and that iron 

will, 
That axelike edge unturnable, our 

Head, 
The Princess." " Well then. Psyche, 

take my life. 
And nail me like a weasel on a grange 
For warning : bury me beside the 

gate. 



338 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



And cut this epitaph above my bones ; 
Here lies a brother by a sister slain, 
All fur the common good of womankind." 
" Let me die too," said Cyril, " having 

seen 
And heard the Lady Psyche." 

I struck in : 
" Albeit so mask'd. Madam, I love the 

truth ; 
Receive it; and in me behold the 

Prince 
Your countryman, affianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida : here, for here she 

was. 
And thus (what other way was left) I 

came." 
" O Sir, O Prince, I have no country ; 

none ; 
If any, this ; but none. Whate'er I 

was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianced, Sir ? love-whispers may 

not breathe 
Within this vestal limit, and how 

should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live : the 

thunder-bolt 
Hangs silent ; but prepare : I speak ; 

it falls." 
" Yet pause," I said : " for that in- 
scription there, 
I think no more of deadly lurks therein, 
Thau in a clapper clapping in a garth. 
To scare the fowl from fruit : if more 

there be. 
If more and acted on, what follows "? 

war ; 
Your own work marr'd ; for this j^our 

Academe, 
Whichever side be Victor, in the hal- 
loo 
Will topple to the trumpet down, and 

pass 
With all fair theories only made to 

gild 
A stormless summer." " Let the 

Princess judge 
Of that " she said : " farewell, Sir — 

and to you. 
I shudder at the sequel, but I go." 

" Are you that Lady Psyche," I re- 
join 'd, 
" The fifth in line from that old Plo- 

rian. 
Yet hangs his portrait in my father's 

hall 
(The gaunt old Baron witli his beetle 

brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he 

fell. 
And all else fled :• we point to it, and 

we say, 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not 

cold, 



But branches current yet in kindred 

veins." 
" Are you that Psyche," Florian add- 
ed : " she 
With whom I sang about the morning 

hills. 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the 

purple fly, 
And snared the squirrel of the glen ? 

are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throb- 
bing bi'ow. 
To smoothe my pillow, mix the foam- 
ing draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and 

read 
My sickness down to happy dreams ? 

are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in 

one 1 
You were that Psyche, but what are 

you now ? " 
" You are that Psyche," Cyril said, 

" for whom 
I would be that for ever which I seem. 
Woman, if I might sit beside your feet. 
And glean your scatter'd sapience." 

Then once more, 
" Are you that Lady Psyche," I began, 
" That on her bridal morn before she 

past 
From all her old companions, when 

the king 
Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that 

ancient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the south- 
ern hills ; . 
That were there any of our people 

there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them ? look ! for such are 

these and I." 
" Are you that Psyche," Florian ask'd, 

" to whom, 
In gentler days, your arrow-wounded 

fawn 
Came flying while you sat beside the 

well ? 
The creature laid his muzzle on joxlt 

lap, 
And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, 

and the blood 
Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you 

wept. 
That was fawn's blood, not brother's, 

yet you wept. 
O by the bright head of my little 

niece. 
You were that Psyche, and what are 

you now ? " 
"You are that Psyche," Cj'ril said 

again, 
" The mother of the sweetest little 

maid, 
That ever crow'd for kisses." 

" Out upon it ! " 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



339 



She answer'd, " peace ! and why should 
I not play 

The Spartan Mother with emotion, 
be 

The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? 

Him you call great : he for the com- 
mon weal, 

The fading politics of mortal Rome, 

As I might slay this child, if good 
need were, 

Slew both his sons : and I, shall I, on 
whom 

The secular emancipation turns 

Of half this world, be swerved from 
right to save 

A prince, a brother ? a little will I 
yield. 

Best so, perchance, for us, and well 
for you. 

hard, when love and duty clash ! I 
fear 

My conscience will not count me fleck- 
less ; yet — 

Hear my conditions: promise (other- 
wise 

You perish) as you came, to slip away 

To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be 
said, 

These women were too barbarous, 
would not learn ; 

They fled, who might have shamed 
us : promise, all." 

What could we else, we promised 

each ; and she, 
Like some wild creature newly-caged, 

commenced 
A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian ; holding out her lily 

arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling 

faintly said : 
" I knew you at the first : tho' j'ou 

have grown 
You scarce have alter'd : I am sad and 

glad 
To see you, Florian. / give thee to 

death, 
Mj- brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
]\Iy needful seeming harshness, pardon 

it. 
Our mother, is she well 1 " 

With that she kiss'd 
His forehead, then, a moment after, 

clung 
About him, and betwixt them blos- 

som'd up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of 

the hearth, 
And far allusion, till the gracious 

dews 
Began to glisten and to fall : and 

while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came 

a voice. 



" I brought a message here from Ladj^ 

Blanche." 
Back started she, and turning round 

we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where 

she stood, 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown, 
That clad her like an April daffodilly 
(Her mother's color) with her lips 

apart. 
And all her thoughts as fair within 

her eyes. 
As bottom agates seen to wave and 

float 
In crystal currents of clear morning 

seas. 

So stood that same fair creature at 

the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, " Ah — Melissa — 

you! 
You heard us "? " and Melissa, " O 

pardon me ; 
I heard, I could not help it, did not 

wish : 
But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me 

not. 
Nor think I bear that heart within my 

breast. 
To give three gallant gentlemen to 

death." 
" I trust you," said the other, " for 

we two 
Were always friends, none closer, elm 

and vine : 
But yet your mother's jealous tem- 
perament — 
Let not your prudence, dearest, 

drowse, or prove 
The Danaid of a leaky vase, for fear 
This whole foundation ruin, and I lose 
My honor, these their lives." "Ah, 

fear me not " 
Replied Melissa ; "no — I would not 

tell. 
No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness. 
No, not to answer. Madam, all those 

hard things 
That Sheba came to ask of Solomon." 
" Be it so " the other, " that we still 

may lead 
The new light up, and culminate in 

peace. 
For Solomon may come to Sheba yet." 
Said Cyril, " Madam, he the wisest 

man 
Feasted the woman wisest then, in 

halls 
Of Lebanonian cedar: nor should you 
(Tho' Madam you should answer, ice 

would ask) 
Less welcome find among us, if you 

came 
Among us, debtors for our lives to 

you, 



340 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Myself for something more." Ho said 

not what. 
But " Thanks," she answer'd " Go : 

we liave been too long 
Together : keep your hoods about the 

face ; 
They do so that affect abstraction 

here. 
Speak little ; mix not Avith the rest ; 

and hold 
Your promise : all, I trust, may yet 

be well." 

We turn'd to go, but Cvril took the 

child. 
And held her round the knees against 

his waist, 
And blew the swoU'n cheek of a 

trumpeter. 
While Psyche watch'd tliem, smiling, 

and the cliild 
Push'd her flat hand against his face 

and laugh'd ; 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we stroU'd 
For lialf the day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we 

sat, we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture 

slate 
The circle rounded under female 

hands 
With flawless demonstration : follow'd 

then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, 
With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted 

out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels five- 
words-long 
That on the stretch'd forefinger of all 

Time 
Sparkle for ever : then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state. 
The total chronicles of man, the mind. 
The morals, something of the frame, 

the rock. 
The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, 

the flower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest, 
And whatsoever can be taught and 

known ; 
Till like three horses that have broken 

fence, 
And glutted all night long breast- 
deep in corn, 
We issued gorged with knowledge, 

and I spoke : 
"Why, Sirs, they do all this as well 

as we." 
"They hunt old trails," said C^'ril, 

" very well ; 
But when did ■ woman ever yet in- 
vent ? " 
" Ungracious ! " answer'd Florian ; 

" have von learnt 



No more from Psyche's lecture, you 

that talk'd 
Tlie trash that made me sick, and 

almost sad ? " 
" trash," he said, " but with a ker- 
nel in it. 
Should I not call her wise, who made 

me wise ? 
And learnt ? I learnt more from h.er 

in a flash. 
Than if my brainpan were an empty 

hull, 
And every Muse tumbled a science 

in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these 

halls, 
And round these halls a thousand 

baby loves 
Fly twanging headless arrows at the 

hearts. 
Whence follows many a vacant pang; 

but O 
With me. Sir, enter'd in the bigger 

boy. 
The Head of all the golden-shafted 

firm, 
The long-limb'd lad that had a Psyche 

too ; 
He cleft me thro' the stomacher ; and 

now 
What think you of it, Florian ? do I 

chase 
The substance or the shadow 1 will it 

hold ? 
I have no sorcerer's rhalison on me, 
No ghostly hauntings like his High- 
ness. I 
Flatter myself that alwaj^s every- 
where 
I know the substance when I see it. 

Well, 
Are castles shadows % Three of them ? 

Is slie 
The sv/eet proprietress a shadow ? If 

not. 
Shall those three castles patch my 

tatter'd coat ? 
For dear are those three castles to my 

wants. 
And dear is sister Psyche to my heart. 
And two dear things are one of double 

worth, 
And much I might have said, but that 

my zone 
Unmann'd me : then the Doctors ! O 

to hear 
The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty 

plants 
Imbibing ! once or twice I thought to 

roar, 
To break my chain, to shake my 

mane : but thou. 
Modulate me. Soul of mincing mim- 
icry ! 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon, 

my tliroat ; 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



341 



Abase those eyes that ever loved to 

meet 
Star-sisters answering under crescent 

brows ; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of 

man, and loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this 

cheek, 
"Where they like swallows coming out 

of time 
Will wonder why they came : but 

hark the bell 
For dinner, let us go ! " 

And in we stream'd 
Among the columns, pacing staid and 

still 
By twos and threes, till all from end 

to end 
With beauties every shade of brown 

and fair 
In colors gayer than the morning mist. 
The long hall glitter'd like a bed of 

flowers. 
How might a man not wander from 

his wits 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I 

kejJt mine own 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious 

dreams, 
The second-sight of some Astrajan age. 
Sat compass'd with professors: they, 

the while, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and 

fro: 
A clamor thicken'd, mixt with inmost 

terms 
Of art and science : Lady Blanche 

alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest linea- 
ments, 
With all her autumn tresses falsely 

brown. 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens : 

there 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and 

one 
In this hand held a volume as to read. 
And smoothed a petted peacock down 

with that : 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by, 
Or under arches of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow'd from the heat : some 

hid and sought 
In the orange thickets : others tost a 

ball. 
Above the fountain-jets, and back 

again 
With laughter : others lay about the 

lawns. 
Of the older sort, and murmur'd that 

their May 
Was passing : what was learning unto 

them ? 



They wisli'd to marry; they could 

rule a house ; 
Men hated learned women : but we 

three 
Sat muffled like the Fates ; and often 

came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity, 
That harm'd not : then day droopt ; 

the chapel bells 
Call'd us : we left the walks ; we mixt 

with those 
Six hundred maidens clad in purest 

white. 
Before two streams of light from wall 

to wall. 
While the great organ almost burst 

his pipes. 
Groaning for power, and rolling thro' 

the court 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies. 
The work of Ida, to call down from 

Heaven 
A blessing on her labors for the world. 

III. 

Sweet and low, sweet and low. 

Wind of the western sea. 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dj'ing moou, and blow. 

Blow him again to me; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
Father will come to thee soon ; 

Rest, rest, on mother's bi'east, 
Father will come to thee soon; 

Father will come to his babe in the nest, 

Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon : 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, 
sleep. 

Morn in the white wake of the morn- 
ing star 

Came furrowing all the orient into 
gold. 

We rose, and each by other drest with 
care 

Descended to the court that lay three 
parts 

In shadow, but the Muses' heads were 
touch'd 

Above tlie darkness from their native 
East. 

There while we stood beside the fount, 
and watch'd 

Or seem'd to watch the dancing bub- 
ble, approach'd 

Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of 
sleep. 

Or grief, and glowing round her dewy 
eyes 



342 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



The circled Iris of a night of tears ; 
" And fly," she cried, " O fly, while 

yet j'ou may ! 
My mother knows : " and when I 

ask'd her " how," 
"My fault," she wept, "my fault ! and 

yet not mine ; 
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon 

me. 
Mj' mother, 'tis her wont from night 

to night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have 

been the Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two 

arms ; 
And so it was agreed when first they 

came ; 
But Lady Psyche was the right hand 

now. 
And she the left, or not, or seldom 

used ; 
Hers more than half the students, all 

the love. 
And so last night she fell to canvass 

you: 
Her countrywomen ! she did not envy 

her. 
' Who ever saw such wild barbarians ? 
Girls ? — more like men ! ' and at these 

words the snake. 
My secret, seem'd to stir within my 

breast ; 
And oh. Sirs, could I help it, but my 

cheek 
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx 

eye 
To fix and make me 'hotter, till she 

laugh'd : 
' marvellouslj' modest maiden, you ! 
Men ! girls, like men ! why, if they 

had been men 
You need not set your thoughts in 

rubric; thus 
For wholesale comment.' Pardon, I 

am shamed 
That I must needs repeat for my 

excuse 
What looks so little graceful : ' men ' 

(for still 
My mother went revolving on the 

word ) 
' And so they are, — very like men 

indeed — 
And with that woman closeted for 

hours ! ' 
Then came these dreadful words out 

one by one, 
' Why — these — are — men : ' I shud- 

der'd : ' and you know it.' 
' O ask me nothing,' I said : ' And 

she knows too. 
And she conceals it.' So my mother 

clutch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word 

from me ; 



And now thus early risen she goes to 
inform 

The Princess : Lady Psyche will be 
crush'd ; 

But you may yet be saved, and there- 
fore fly : 

But heal me with your pardon ere you 
go." 

. " What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a 

blush ? " 
Said Cyril : " Pale one, blush again : 

than wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives 

away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more 

in Heaven" 
He added, " lest some classic Angel 

speak 
In scorn of us, ' They mounted, Gany- 

medes. 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second 

morn.' 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us farther furlough : " and he 

went. 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, 

and thought 
He scarce would prosper. "Tell us," 

Florian ask'd, 
" How grew this feud betwixt the 

right and left." 
" long ago," she said, " betwixt these 

two 
Division smoulders hidden; 'tis my 

mother, 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice : much I bear with 

her : 
I never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a 

fool; 
And still she rail'd against the state 

of things. 
She had the care of Lady Ida's youth, 
And from the Queen's decease she 

brought her up. 
But when your sister came she won 

the heart 
Of Ida : they were still together, grew 
(For so they said themselves) inoscu- 
lated ; 
Consonant chords that shiver to one 

note ; 
One mind in all things : yet my mother 

still 
AflBrms your Psyche thieved her the- 
ories, 
And angled with them for her pupil's 

love : 
She calls her plagiarist ; I know not 

what : 
But I must go : I dare not tarry," and 

light. 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY 



343 



Then murmur'd Florian gazing after 

her, 
"An open-hearted maiden, true and 

pure. 
If I could love, why this were she : 

how pretty 
Her blushing was, and how she blush'd 

again, 
As if to close with Cyril's random 

wish : 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with 

erring pride, 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags 

in tow." 

" The crane," I said, " may chatter 

of the crane, 
The dove may murmur of the dove, 

but I 
An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 
My princess, U my princess ! true she 

errs. 
But in her own grand way : being her- 
self 
Three times more noble than three 

score of men. 
She sees herself in every woman else. 
And so she wears her error like a 

crown 
To blind the tnith and me : for her, 

and her, 
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar ; but — ah she — whene'er 

she moves 
The Samian Here rises and she speaks 
A Memnon smitten with the morning 

Sun." 

So saying from the court we paced, 
and gain'd 

The terrace ranged along the North- 
ern front. 

And leaning there on those balusters, 
high 

Above the empurpled champaign, 
drank the gale 

That blown about the foliage under- 
neath. 

And sated with the innumerable rose. 

Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither 
came 

Cyril, and yawning " hard task," 
he cried; 

" No fighting shadows here ! I forced 
a way 

Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and 
gnarl'd. 

Better to clear prime forests, heave 
and thump 

A league of street in summer solstice 
down, 

Than hammer at this reverend gentle- 
woman. 

I knock'd and, bidden, enter'd ; found 
her there 



At point to move, and settled in her 

eyes 
The green malignant light of coming 

storm. 
Sir, I^was courteous, every phrase 

well-oil'd. 
As man's could be ; yet maiden-meek 

I pray'd ' 

Concealment ; she demanded who we 

were. 
And why we came % I fabled nothing 

fair, 
But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the husli'd amaze of hand 

and eye. 
But when I dwelt upon your old affi- 
ance, 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd 

astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the 

gate, 
And oin- three lives. True — we had 

limed ourselves 
With open eyes, and we must take 

the chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well 

might harm 
The woman's cause. ' Not more than 

now,' she said, 
' So puddled as it is with favoritism.' 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame 

might befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she 

knew : 
Her answer was ' Leave me to deal 

with that.' 
I spoke of war to come and many 

deaths, 
And she replied, her duty was to 

speak, 
And duty duty, clear of consequences. 
I grew discouraged, Sir ; but since I 

knew 
No rock so hard but that a little 

wave 
May beat admission in a thousand 

years, 
I recommenced ; ' Decide not ere you 

pause. 
I find you here but in the second place. 
Some say the third — the authentic 

foundress you. 
I offer boldly : we will seat you high- 
est : 
Wink at our advent : help my prince 

to gain 
His rightful bride, and here I promise 

you 
Some palace in our land, where you 

shall reign 
The head and heart of all our fair she- 
world, 
And your great name flow on with 

broadening time 
For ever.' Well, she balanced this a 

little, 



344 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



And told me she would answer us to- 
day, 

Meantime be mute : thus much, nor 
more I gain'd." 

He ceasing, came a message from 

the Head. 
" That afternoon the Princess rode to 

take 
Tlie dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her 1 we should find 

tiie land 
Worth seeing ; and the river made a 

fall 
Out yonder : " then she pointed on to 

where 
A double hill ran up his furrowy forks 
Beyond the tliick-leaved platans of 

the vale. 

Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' 

all 
Its range of duties to the appointed 

hour. 
Then summon'd to the jwrch we went. 

She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the 

head, 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on 

one 
Of those tame leopards. Kittenlike 

he roU'd 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew 

near ; 
I gazed. On a sudden my strange 

seizure came 
Upon me, the weird vision of our 

house : 
The Princess Ida seem'd a hollow 

sliow, 
Her gay-f urr'd cats a painted fantasy. 
Her college and her maidens, empty 

masks, 
And I myself the shadow of a dream, 
For all things were and were not. Yet 

I felt 
My heart beat thick witii passion and 

with awe ; 
Then from my breast the involuntary 

sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light 

of eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and 

shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following 

up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she 
said : 
" O friend, we trust that you esteem'd 

us not 
Too harsh to your companion yester- 
morn ; 



Unwillingly we spake." " Xo — not 
to her," 

I answer'd, " but to one of whom we 
spake 

Your Highness might have seem'd the 
thing you say." 

" Again % " she cried, " are you am- 
bassadresses 

From him to me ? we give j'ou, being 
strange, 

A license : speak, and let the topic 
die." 

I stammer'd that I knew him — 

could have wish'd — 
"Our king expects — was there no 

precontract ? 
There is no truer-hearted — ah, yoii 

seem 
All he prefigured, and lie could not see 
The bird of passage flying south but 

long'd 
To follow : surely, if your Highness 

keep 
Your purport, you will shock him ev'n 

to death. 
Or baser coui'ses, children of despair." 

" Poor boy," she said, " can he not 

read — no books ? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games "? nor 

deals in that 
Which men delight in, martial exer- 
cise "? 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks lie seems no better than a 

girl; 
As girls were once, as we oursclf have 

been : 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt 

with them : 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun 

to do it, 
Being otlier — since Ave learnt our 

meaning liere. 
To lift the woman's fall'n divinity 
Upon an even pedestal with man." 

She paused, and added with a 

haughtier smile 
" And as to precontracts, we move, my 

friend. 
At no man's beck, but know ourself 

and thee, 
Vashti, noble Vashti ! Summon'd 

out 
She kept her state, and left the 

drunken king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the 

palms." 

" Alas your Highness breathes full 
East," I said, 
" On that wliich leans to you. I know 
the Prince, 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



345 



I prize his truth : and then how vast 

a work 
To assail tliis gray preeminence of 

man! 
You grant me license ; might I use it ? 

think ; 
Ere half be done perchance your life 

may fail ; 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your 

plan, 
And takes and ruins all ; and thus 

your pains 
May only make that footprint upon 

sand 
Which old-recurring waves of preju- 
dice 
Resmooth to nothing : might I dread 

that you, 
With only Fame for spouse and your 

great deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and 

miss. 
Meanwhile, what every woman counts 

her due. 
Love, children, happiness ? " 

And she exclaim'd, 
"Peace, you j'oung savage of the 

Northern wild ! 
What! tho' your Prince's love were 

like a God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacri- 
fice ? 
You are bold indeed : we are not 

talk'd to thus: 
Yet will we say for children, would 

they grew 
Like field-flowers everywhere ! we like 

them well : 
But children die ; and let me tell j-ou, 

girl, 
Howe'er you babble, great deeds can- 
not die ; 
They with the sun and moon renew 

their light 
For ever, blessing those that look on 

them. 
Children — that men may pluck them 

from our hearts. 
Kill us with pity, break us with our- 
selves — 
O — children — there is nothing upon 

earth 
More miserable than she that has a son 
And sees him err : nor would we work 

for fame ; 
Tho' she perhaps might reap the ap- 
plause of Great, 
Who learns the one pou sxo whence 

after-hands 
May move the world, tho' she herself 

effect 
But little : wherefore up and act, nor 

shrink 
For fear our solid aim be dissipated 
By frail successors. Would, indeed, 

we had been, 



In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 
Of giants living, each, a thousand 

years. 
That we might see our own work out, 

and watch 
The sandy footprint harden into 

stone." 

I answer'd nothing, doubtful in 

myself 
If that strange Poet-princess witli her 

grand 
Imaginations might at all be won. 
And she broke out interpreting my 

thoughts : 

" No doubt we seem a kind of 

monster to you ; 
We are used to that : for women, up 

till this 
Cramp'd under worse than South-sea 

isle taboo. 
Dwarfs of the gynseceum, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot 

guess 
How much their welfare is a passion 

to us. 
If we could give them surer, quicker 

proof — 
Oh if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches, than by single 

act 
Of immolation, any phase of death. 
We were as prompt to spring against 

the pikes, 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it. 
To compass our dear sisters' lib- 
erties." 

She bow'd as if to vail a noble 

tear; 
And up we came to where the river 

sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on 

black blocks 
A breadth of thunder. O'er it shook 

the woods. 
And danced the color, and, below, 

stuck out 
The bones of some vast bulk that 

lived and roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile 

and said, 
" As these rude bones to us, are we to 

her 
That will be." " Dare we dream of 

that," I ask'd, 
" Which wrought us, as the workman 

and his work. 
That practice betters ? " " How," she 

cried, " you love 
The metaphysics ! read and earn 

our prize, 
A golden brooch : beneath an emerald 

plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 



346 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Of hemlock ; our device ; wrought to 

the life ; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her : 
For there are schools for all." " And 

yet " I said 
" Methinks I have not found among 

them all 
One anatomic." "Nay, we thought 

of that," 
She answer'd, " but it pleased us not : 

in truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids 

should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve 

the living hound. 
And cram him with the fragments of 

the grave, 
Or in the dark dissolving human 

heart. 
And holy secrets of this microcosm. 
Dabbling a shameless hand with 

shameful jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits : yet we 

know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and tliis 

matter hangs : 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty. 
Nor willing men should come among 

us, learnt, 
For many weary moons before we 

came. 
This craft of healing. Were you 

sick, ourself 
Would tend upon you. To your 

question now. 
Which touches on the workman and 

his work. 
Let there be light and there was 

light : 'tis so : 
For was, and is, and will be, are but is ; 
And all creation is one act at once. 
The birth of light : but we that are 

not all. 
As parts, can see but parts, now this, 

now that, 
And live, perforce, from thought to 

thought, and make 
One act a phantom of succession : 

thus 
Our weakness somehow shapes the 

shadow. Time ; 
But in the shadow will we work, and 

mould 
The woman to the fuller day." 

She spake 
With kindled eyes : we rode a league 

beyond. 
And, o'er a bridge of pinewood cross- 
ing, came 
( )n flowery levels underneath the crag, 
Full of all beauty. " how sweet " 

I said 
(For I was half -oblivious of my mask) 
" To linger here with one that loved 
us." " Yea," 



She answer'd, "or with fair philoso- 

pliies 
That lift the fancy ; for indeed these 

fields 
Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian 

lawns. 
Where paced the Demigods of old, 

and saw 
The soft white vapor streak the 

crowned towers 
Built to the Sun : " then, turning to 

her maids, 
" Pitch our pavilion here upon tlie 

sward ; 
Lay out the viands." At the word, 

tlicy raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph ; here 

she stood, 
Engirt with many a florid maiden- 
cheek, 
The woman conqueror; woman-con- 

quer'd there 
The bearded Victor of ten-thousand 

hymns, 
And all the men mourn'd at his side : 

but we 
Set forth to climb ; then, climbing, 

Cyril kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Many a little 

hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on 

the rocks, 
Many a light foot shone like a jewel 

set 
In the dark crag: and then we turn'd, 

we wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, 
Hammering and clinking, chattering 

stony names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and 

trap and tuff. 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun 
Grew broader toward his death and 

fell, and all 
The rosy heights came out above the 

lawns. 



The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the %vild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us liear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 
They faint on hill or field or river : 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow for ever and for ever. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



347 



Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. 

" There sinks the nebulous star we 

call the Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound." 
Said Ida ; " let us down and rest ; " 

and we 



Down from the lean and wrinkled 

precipices, 
By every coppice-feather'd chasm and 

cleft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to 

where below 
No bigger than a glow-worm shone 

the tent 




" The splendor 
And snowy 



falls on castle vails 
summits old in story." 



Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she 

lean'd on me, 
Descending ; once or twice she lent 

her hand, 
And blissful palpitations in the blood, 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and 

fell. 

But when we planted level feet, 

and dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd 

in, 
There leaning deep in broider'd down 

we sank 
Our elbows : on a tripod in the midst 



A fragrant flame rose, and before us 

glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, 

and gold. 

Then she, " Let some one sing to 

us : lightlier move 
The minutes fledged with music : " 

and a maid. 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, 

and sang. 

"Tears, idle tears, I know not what they 
mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Kise in the he.irt, and gather to the eyes. 



348 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



In looking on the happj' Autumn-lields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

" Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the under- 
world, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
80 sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

"Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer 

dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering 

square ; 
Ho sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

" Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more." 



She ended with such pa.ssion that 

the tear. 
She .sang of, shook and fell, an erring^ 

pearl 
Lost in her bosom : but with some 

disdain 
Answer'd the Princess, " If indeed 

there haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to 

men. 
Well needs it we should cram our ears 

with wool 
And so pace by : but thine are fancies 

hatch'd 
In silken-folded idleness ; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost. 




" Ln lookiny on the hu/ipi/ Autumn-Jields, 
And thinking of the dai/s that are no more.' 



But trim our sails, and let old bygones 

be. 
While down the streams that float us 

each and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering 

bergs of ice, 
Throne after throne, and molten on 

the waste 
Becomes a cloud : for all things serve 

their time 
Toward that great year of equal 

mights and rights, 
Nor would ] fight with iron laws, in 

the end 
Found golden : let the past be past ; 

let be 
Their cancell'd Babels : tho' the rough 

kex break 



The starr'd mosaic, and the beard- 
blown goat 

Hang on the shaft, and the wild fig- 
tree split 

Their monstrous idols, care not while 
we hear 

A trumpet in the distance pealing 
news 

Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, 
burns 

Above the unrisen morrow : " then to 
me ; 

" Know you no song of your own land," 
she said, 

" Not such as moans about the retro- 
spect. 

But deals with the other distance and 
the Imes 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



349 



Of promise ; not a death's-head at the 
wine." 

Then I rcmember'd one myself had 

made, 
"What time I watch'd the swallow 

winging south 
From mine own land, part made long 

since, and part 
Now while I sang, and maidenlike as 

far 
As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 

"Otell her. Swallow, thou that knowost 
each. 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true .ind tender is the Korth. 

"O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, 
and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

" O were I thou that she might take me in. 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
"Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

" Why lingereth she to clothe her heart 

with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are 

green ? 

" O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is 
flown : 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

" tell her, brief is life but love i.s long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the jSTorth, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

" O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
Fly to htr, and pipe and woo her, and make 

her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee." 

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at 

each. 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old 

time, 
Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd 

with alien lips, 
And knew not what they meant ; for 

still my voice 
Rang false: but smiling "Not for 

thee," she said, 
" Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil : marsh-divers, 

ratlier, maid, 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow- 
crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : 

and this 
A mere love-poem ! for such, my 

friend. 
We hold them slight : they mind us of 

the time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. 

Knaves are men, 



That hite and flutu fantastic tender- 
ness. 

And (hx'ss the victim to tlic offering up. 

And paint the gates of Hell with Par- 
adise, 

And play the slave to gain the t3-ranny. 

Poor soul ! I liad a maid of honor once ; 

She wept her true eyes blind for such 
a one, 

A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 

I loved her. Peace be with her. fShe 
is dead. 

So they blaspheme the muse ! But 
great is song 

Used to great ends : ourself have often 
tried 

^^alkyrian hymns, or into rhythm 
have dash'd 

Tlie passion of the prophetess ; for song 

Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 

( )f spirit tlian to junketing and love. 

Love is it ? Woidd this same mock- 
love, and this 

IMock-Hymen were laid up like winter 
bats, 

Till all men grew to rate us at our 
worth. 

Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 

To be dandled, no, but living wills, 
and sphered 

Whole in ourselves and owed to none. 
Enough ! 

But now to leaven play with profit, 
3'ou, 

Know you no song, the true growth of 
your soil, 

That gives the manners of your coun- 
try-women % 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptu- 
ous head with eyes 

Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 

Then while I dragg'd my brains for 
such a song, 

Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd 
glass had wrought, 

Or master'd by the sense of sport, be- 
gan 

To troll a careless, careless tavern- 
catch 

Of Moll and Meg, and strange experi- 
ences 

Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded 
at him, 

I frowning ; Psyche flush'd and wann'd 
and shook ; 

The lily like Melissa droop'd her brows ; 

" Forbear," the Princess cried ; " For- 
bear, Sir," I ; 

And lieated thro' and thro' with wratli 
and love, 

I smote him on the breast ; he started 
up; 

There rose a shriek as of a city sack'd ; 

Melissa clamor'd " Flee the death ; " 
" To horse," 



350 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Said Ida; "home! to liorse ! " and 
fled, as flies 

A troop of snowy doves athwart the 
dusk, 

When some one batters at tlie dove- 
cote-doors, 

Disorderly tiie women. Alone I stood 

With Ilorian, cursing Cyril, vext at 
heart, 

In the pavilion ; there like parting 
hopes 

I heard them passing from me : hoof 
by hoof. 

And every hoof a knell to my desires, 

Clang'd on the bridge ; and then an- 
other shriek, 

" The Head, the Head, the Princess, O 
the Head ! " 

For blind with rage she miss'd the 
plank, and roU'd 

In the river. Out I sprang from glow 
to gloom : 

There whirl'd her white robe like a 
blossom'd branch 

Rapt to the horrible fall : a glance I 
gave. 

No more ; but woman- vested as I was 

Plunged; and the flood drew; yet I 
caught her; then 

< )aring one arm, and bearing in my 
^left 

The weight of all the hopes of half 
the world. 

Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree 

Was half-disrooted from his place and 
stoop'd 

To drench his dark locks in the gur- 
gling wave 

JMid-channel. Right on this we drove 
and caught. 

And grasping down the boughs I 
gain'd the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmer- 

ingly group'd 
In the hollow bank. One reaching 

forward drew 
My burthen from mine arms ; they 

cried " she lives : " 
They bore her back into the tent : but 

I, 
So much a kind of shame within pt^ 

wrought. 
Not yet endured to meet her opening 

eyes, 
.Vor found my friends; but push'd 

alone on foot 
(For siijce her horse was lost I left 

her mine) 
Across the woods, and less from 

Indian craft 
Than beelike instinct hiveward, found 

at length 
The garden portals. Two great 

statues. Art 
And Science, Caryatids lifted up 



A weight of emblem, and betwixt were 

valves 

Of open-work in which the hunter 
rued 

His rash intrusion, manlike, but his 
brows 

Had sprouted, and the branches there- 
upon 

Spread out at top, and grimly spiked 
the gates. 

A little space was left between the 

horns. 
Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top 

with pain, 
Dropt on the sward, and up the linden 

walks. 
And, tost on tlioughts that changed 

from hue to hue, 
Now poring on the glowworm, now 

the star, 
I paced the terrace, till the Bear had 

wheel'd 
Thro' a great arc his seven slow suns 

A step 

Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 

Than female, moving thro' the imcer- 
taia gloom, 

Disturb'd me with the doubt " if this 
were she," 

But it was Florian. " Hist Hist,"^ 
lie said, 

" They seek us : out so late is out of 
rules. 

Moreover ' seize the strangers ' is the 
cry. 

How came you here ? " I told him : 
" I " said he, 

" Last of the train, a moral leper, I, 

To whom none spake, half-sick at 
heart, return'd. 

Arriving all confused among the rest 

With hooded brows I crept into the 
hall. 

And, couch'd behind a Judith, under- 
neath 

The head of Holof ernes peep'd and saw. 

Girl after girl was call'd to trial : each 

Disclaim'd all knowledge of us : last 
of all, 

Melissa : trust me, Sir, I pitied her. 

She, question'd if she knew us men, 
at first 

Was silent; closer prest, denied it 
not: 

And then, demanded if her mother 
knew. 

Or Psyche, she affirm'd not, or de- 
nied : 

From whence the Royal mind, famil- 
iar with her. 

Easily gather'd either guilt. She 
sent 

For Psyche, but she was not there ; 
she call'd 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



351 



For Psyche's child to cast it from 

the doors , 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her 

face to face ; 
And I slipt out : but whither will you 

now'? 
And where are Psyche, Cyril ' both 

are fled • 
What, if together "^ that wore not so 

well. 
Would rather we had never come ! I 

dread 
His wildness, and the chances of the 

dark." 

"And yet," I said, "you wrong him 

more than I 
That struck him this is proper to the 

clown, 
Tho' smock'd, or furr'd and purpled, 

still the clown, 
To harm the thing that trusts him, 

and to shame 
That which he says he loves for 

Cyril, howe'er 
He deal in frolic, as to-night — the 

song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd in 

grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not 

he. 
He has a solid base of temperament ■ 
But as the waterlily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 
Tho' anchor'd to the bottom, such is 
, he." 

Scarce had I ceased when from a 

tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 

" Names : " 
He, standing still, was clutch'd; but 

I began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, 

wind 
And double in and out the boles, and 

race 
By all the fountains : fleet I was of 

foot: 
Before me shower'd the rose in flakes ; 

behind 
I heard the puti'd pursuer; at mine 

ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded 

not. 
And secret laughter tickled all my 

soul. 
At last I hook'd my ankle in a vine. 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught 

and known. 

They haled us to the Princess 
where she sat 
High in the hall : above her droop'd 
a lamp. 



And made the single jewel on her 
brow 

Burn like the mystic fire on a mast- 
head, 

Prophet of storm : a handmaid on 
each side 

Bow'd toward her, combing out her 
long black hair 

Damp from the river; and close be- 
hind her stood 

Eight daughters of the plough, 
stronger than men. 

Huge women blowzed with health, 
and wind, and rain, 

And labor. Each was like a Druid 
rock; 

Or like a spire of land that stands 
apart 

Cleft from the main, and wail'd about 
with mews. 

Then, as we came, the crowd divid- 
ing clove 
An advent to the throne : and there- 

beside, 
Half-naked as if caught at once from 

bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, 

lay 
The lily-shining child; and on the 

left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up 

from wrong, 
Her round white shoulder shaken with 

her sobs, 
Melissa knelt; but Lady Blanche 

erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent 

orator. 

" It was not thus, O Princess, in old 

days : 
You prized my counsel, lived upon 

my lips : 
I led you then to all the Castalies ; 
I fed you with the milk of every 

Muse; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you 

me 
Your second mother: those were 

gracious times. 
Then came your new friend : you 

began to change — 
I saw it and grieved — to slacken and 

to cool ; 
Till taken with her seeming openness 
You turn'd your warmer currents all 

to her, 
To me you froze : this was my meed 

for all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient 

love. 
And partly that I hoped to win you 

back. 
And partly conscious of my own 

deserts. 



352 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



And partly that you were my civil 

head, 
And chiefly you were born for some- 
thing great, 
In which I might your fellow-worker 

be, 
When time should serve ; and thus a 

noble scheme 
Grew up from seed we two long since 

had sown ; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah's 

gourd. 
Up in one night and due to sudden 

sun : 
We took this palace ; but even from 

the first 
You stood in your own light and 

darken'd mine. 
What student came but that you 

planed her path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and 1 your country- 
woman, 
1 your old friend and tried, she new 

in all ? 
But still her lists wei-e swell'd and 

mine were lean ; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be 

known : 
Then came these wolves : theij knew 

her : they endured, 
Long-closeted with her the yester- 

morn, 
To tell her what they were, and she 

to hear : 
And me none told : not less to an eye 

like mine 
A lidless watcher of the public weal, 
Last night, their mask was patent, 

and my foot 
Was to you : but I thought again : I 

fear'd 
To meet a cold ' We thank you, we 

shall hear of it 
From Lady Psyche : ' you had gone 

to her, 
She told, perforce ; and winning easy 

grace, 
No doubt, for slight delay, remain'd 

among us 
In our young nursery still unknown, 

the stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my 

honest heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant 

haste 
To push my rival out of place and 

power. 
But public use required she should be 

known ; 
And since my oath was ta'en for 

public use, 
I broke the letter of it to keej) the 

sense. 
I spoke not then at first, but watch'd 

them well. 



Saw that tiiey kept apart, no mischief 

done ; 
And yet this day (tho' you should 

hate me for it) 
I came to tell you ; found that you 

had gone, 
Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise : now, 

I thought. 
That surely she will speak; if not, 

then I : 
Did she ? These monsters blazon'd 

what they were. 
According to the coarseness of their 

kind. 
For thus I hear ; and known at last 

(my work) 
And full of cowardice and guilty 

shame, 
I grant in her some sense of shame, 

she flies ; 
And I remain on whom to wreak 

your rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up 

yours, 
I that have wasted here health, wealth, 

and time, 
And talent, I — you know it — I will 

not boast : 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan. 
Divorced from my experience, will be 

chaff 

I For every gust of chance, and men 
I ' will say 

We did not know the real light, but 

cliased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot 

can tread." 



She ceased : the Princess answer'd 

coldly, " Good : 
Your oath is broken : we dismiss you : 

go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the 

child) 
Our mind is changed : we take it to 

ourself." 

Thereat the Lady stretch'd a vul- 
ture throat, 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard 

smile. 
"The plan was mine. I built the 

nest " she said 
" To hatch the cuckoo. Rise ! " and 

stoop'd to updrag 
Melissa : she, half on her mother propt, 
Half-drooping from her, turn'd her 

face, and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer. 
Which melted Florian's fancy as she 

hung, 
A Niobean daughter, one arm out, 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; 

and while 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



353 



About the doors, and on a sudden 

rush'd 
Among us, out of breath, as one pur- 
sued, 
A woman-post in flying raiment. 

Fear 
Stared in her eyes, and clialli'd her 

face, and wing'd 
Her transit to tlie throne, whereby she 

fell 
Delivering seal'd dispatches which 

the Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's 

mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she read, till over 

brow 
And cheek and bosom brake the 

wrathful bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy 

cloud. 
When the wild peasant rights him- 
self, the rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the 

heavens ; 
For anger most it seem'd, while now 

her breast. 
Beaten with some great passion at 

her heart, 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and we 

heard 
In the dead hush tlie papers that she 

held 
Kustle : at once the lost lamb at her 

feet 
Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; 
The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire ; 

she crush'd 
The scrolls together, made a sudden 

turn 
As if to speak, but, utterance failing 

her, 
She whirl'd them on to me, as who 

should say 
"Read," and I read — two letters — 

one her sire's. 

" Fair daughter, when we sent the 

Prince your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, 

which learnt. 
We, conscious of what temper you 

are built. 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, 

but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this 

night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested 

you. 
And here he keeps me hostage for his 

son." 



The second was my father's running 
thus: 



" You have our son : touch not a hair 

of his head : 
Render him up unscathed : give him 

your hand : 
Cleave to your contract : tho' indeed 

we liear 
You hold the woman is the better 

man; 
A rampant heresy, sucli as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against 

their Lords 
Thro' all the world, and which might 

^ well deserve 
That we this night should pluck your 

palace down ; 
And we will do it, unless you send us 

back 
Our son, on the instant, whole." 

So far I read ; 
And then stood up and spoke impetu- 
ously. 

" not to pry and peer on your 

reserve. 
But led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of regal compact, did I 

break 
Your precinct; not a scorner of your 

sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be : hear me, for I 

bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er 

your wrongs. 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock 

a life 
Less mine tlian yours : my nurse 

would tell me of you ; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the 

moon. 
Vague brightness ; when a boy, you 

stoop'd to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair 
P' lights. 

Came in long breezes rapt from in- 
most south 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve 

and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods ; 
The leader wildswan in among the 

stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths 

of glowworm light 
The mellow breaker murmur'd Ida. 

Now, 
Because I would have reach'd you, 

had you been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the 

enthroned 
Persephone in Hades, now at length, 
Those winters of abeyance allwornout, 
A man I came to see you : but, indeed, 
Not in this frequence can I lend full 

tongue, 
O noble Ida, to those thoughts that 

wait 



354 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



On you, their centre : let me say but 

this. 
That many a famous man and woman, 

town 
And landskip, have I heard of, after 

seen 
The dwarfs of presage : tho' when 

known, there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing; but in 

you I found 
My boyish dream involved and daz- 
zled down 
And master'd, while that af ter-beautj' 

makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour 

to hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me 

here. 
According to your bitter statute-book, 
I cannot cease to follow you, as they say 
The seal does music ; who desire you 

more 
Than growing boys their manhood ; 

dying lips, 
With many thousand matters left to 

do. 
The breath of life ; O more than poor 

men wealth. 
Than sick men health — yours, yours, 

not mine — but half 
Without you; with you, whole; and 

of those halves 
You worthiest; and howe'er you block 

and bar 
Your heart with system out from mine, 

I hold 
That it becomes no man to nurse 

despair. 
But in the teeth of clench'd antago- 
nisms 
To follow up the worthiest till he die : 
Yet that I came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter." 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, 

and dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet : a tide of fierce 
Invective seem'd to wait behind her 

lips, 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world 

with foam : 
And so she would have spoken, but 

there rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the 

maids 
Gather'd together : from the illumined 

hall 
Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a 

press 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded 

ewes, 
And rainbow robes, and gems and 

gemlike eyes, 



And gold and golden heads ; they to 

and fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some 

red, some pale. 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the 

light, . 
Some crying there was an army in the 

land. 
And some that men were in the very 

walls. 
And some they cared not; till a 

clamor grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman- 
built, 
And worse-confounded : high above 

them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking 

peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head: 

but rising up 
Eobed in the long night of her deep 

hair, so 
To the open window moved, remaining 

there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the 

waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling 

eye 
Glares ruin, and tiie wild birds on the 

light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd 

her arms and call'd 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 

" What fear ye, brawlers ■? am not 

I your Head ? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : 

1 dare 
All these male thunderbolts : what is 

it ye fear ? 
Peace ! there are those to avenge us 

and they come : 
If not, — myself were like enough, O 

girls, 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our 

rights, 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of 

war. 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause. 
Die : yet I blame you not so much for 

fear; 
Six thousand years of fear have made 

you that 
From which I would redeem you : but 

for those 
That stir this hubbub — you and you 

— I know 
Your faces there in the crowd — to- 
morrow morn 
AVe hold a great convention : then 

shall they 
That love their voices more than duty, 

learn 
With whom they deal, dismiss'd in 

shame to live 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



355 



No wiser than their mothers, house- 
hold stuff, 

Live cliattels, mincers of each other's 
fame, 

full of weak poison, turnspits for the 
clown, 

The^ drunkard's football, laughing- 
stocks of Time, 

Whose brains are in their hands and 
in their heels. 

But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to 
thrum, 

To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and 
to scour. 

For ever slaves at home and fools 
abroad." 

She, ending, waved her hands : 

thereat the crowd 
Muttering, dissolved : then with a 

smile, that look'd 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the 

cliff. 
When all the glens are drown'd in 

azure gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us 

and said : 

"You have done well and like a 

gentleman, 
And like a prince : you have our 

thanks for all : 
And you look well too in your woman's 

dress : 
Well have you done and like a gentle- 
man. 
You saved our life : we owe you bitter 

thanks : 
Better have died and spilt our bones 

in the flood — 
Then men had said — but now — What 

hinders me 
To take such bloody vengeance on you 

both % — 
Yet since our father — Wasps in our 

good hive. 
You would-be quenchers of the light 

to be. 
Barbarians, grosser than your native 

bears — 

would I had his sceptre for one 

hour I 
You that have dared to break our 

bound, and guU'd 
Our servants, wrong'd and lied and 

thwarted us — 
/wed with thee! /bound by precontract 
Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho' 

all the gold 
That veins the world were pack'd to 

make your crown. 
And every spoken tongue should lord 

you. Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hate- 
ful to us : 

1 trample on your offers and on you : 



Begone : we will not look upon you 

more. 
Here, push them out at gates." 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of 

tlie plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and 

address'd 
Their motion : twice I sought to plead 

my cause. 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy 

hands. 
The weight of destiny : so from her 

face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and 

thro' the court. 
And with grim laughter thrust us out 

at gates. 

We cross'd the street and gain'd a 

petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights 

and heard 
The voices murmuring. While I 

listen'd, came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the 

doubt : 
I seem'd to move among a world of 

ghosts ; 
The Princess with her monstrous 

woman-guard, 
The jest and earnest working side by 

side, 
The cataract and the tumult and the 

kings 
Were shadows ; and the long fantas- 
tic night 
With all its doings had and had not 

been. 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my 

spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; 
Not long ; I shook it off ; for spite of 

doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was 

one 
To whom the touch of all mischance 

but came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Nor- 
way sun 
Set into sunrise ; then we moved away. 

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 

That beat to battle where he stands; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe. 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

So Lilia sang : we thought her half- 

possess'd. 
She struck such warbling fury thro' 

the words ; 



356 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



And, after, feigning pique at what she 

call'd 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false 

sublime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to 

change 
The music — clapt her hands and 

cried for war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make 

an end : 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half turning to the broken statue, said, 
"Sir Ralph has got your colors: if I 

prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, 

what for me 1 " 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the 

tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. " Fight," 

she said, 
" And make us all we would be, great 

and good." 
He knightlike in his cap instead of 

casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hall. 
Arranged the favor, and assumed the 

Prince. 



Now, scarce three paces measured 

from the mound, 
We stumbled on a stationary voice. 
And " Stand, who goes % " " Two 

from the palace " I. 
" The second two : they wait," he said, 

" pass on ; 
His Highness wakes : " and one, that 

clash'd in arms. 
By glimmering lanes and walls of 

canvass led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we 

heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign 

shake 
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial 

tent 
Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and 

seem'd to hear, 
As in a poplar grove when a light 

wind wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and 

dies, 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear ; 

and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there 

brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to 

death. 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two 

old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and 

down. 



The fresh young captains flash 'd their 

glittering teeth. 
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved 

and blew. 
And slain with laughter roU'd the 

gilded Squire. 



At length my Sire, his rough cheek 

wet with tears. 
Panted from weary sides " King, you 

are free ! 
We did but keep you surety for our 

son. 
If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, 

thou. 
That tends her bristled grunters in 

the sludge : " 
For I was drench'd with ooze, and 

torn with briers. 
More crumpled than a poppy from the 

sheath. 
And all one rag, disprinced from head 

to heel. 
Then some one sent beneath his 

vaulted palm 
A whisper'd jest to some one near 

him, " Look, 
He has been among his shadows." 

" Satan take 
The old women and their shadows ! 

(thus the King 
Roar'd) make yourself a man to fight 

with men. 
Go : Cyril told us all." 

As boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespass-chiding 

eye. 
Away we stole, and transient in a trice 
From what was left of faded woman- 
slough 
To sheathing splendors and the golden 

scale 
Of harness, issued in the sun, that 

now 
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the 

Earth, 
And hit the Northern hills. Here 

Cyril met us. 
A little shy at first, but by and by 
We tM'ain, with mutual pardon ask'd 

and given 
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, 

whereon 
FoUow'd his tale. Amazed he fled 

away 
Thro' the dark land, and later in the 

night 
Had came on Psyche weeping : " then 

we fell 
Into your father's hand, and there she 

lies. 
But will not speak, nor stir." 

He show'd a tent 
A stone-shot off: we enter'd in, and 

there 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



357 



Among piled arms and rough ac- 
coutrements, 

Pitiful sight, wrapp'd in a soldier's 
cloak. 

Like some sweet sculpture draped 
from head to foot, 

And push'd by rude hands from its 
pedestal. 

All her fair length upon the ground 
she lay : 

And at her head a follower of the 
camp, 

A charr'd and wrinkled piece of wo- 
manhood, 

Sat watching like a watcher by the 
dead. 

Then Florian knelt, and " Come " 

he whisper'd to her, 
" Lift up your head, sweet sister : lie 

not thus. 
What have you done but right ? you 

could not slay 
Me, nor your prince : look up : be 

comforted : 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one 

ought. 
When fallen in darker ways." And 

likewise I: 
" Be comforted : have I not lost her 

too, 
In whose least act abides the nameless 

charm 
That none has else for me "? " She 

heard, she moved, 
She moan'd, a folded voice ; and up 

she sat. 
And raised the cloak from brows as 

pale and smooth 
As those that mourn half-shrouded 

over death 
In deathless marble. " Her," she 

said, " my friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause 

and mine — 
Where shall I breathe "? why kept ye 

not your faith ? 
base and bad ! what comfort 7 none 

for me ! " 
To whom remorseful Cyril, "Yet I pray 
Take comfort : live, dear lady, for your 

child ! " 
At which she lifted up her voice and 

cried. 

" Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah, 

my child, 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see 

no more ! 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die from want of 

care. 
Or sicken with ill-usage, when they say 
The child is hers — for every little 

fault, 



The child is hers ; and they will beat 

my girl 
Remembering her mother : my 

flower ! 
Or they will take her, they will make 

her hard. 
And she will pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than 

were she dead. 
Ill mother that I was to leave her there, 
To lag behind, scared by the cry 

they made. 
The horror of the shame among them 

all: 
Bjit I will go and sit beside the doors, 
And make a wild petition night and 

day, 
Until they hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing for ever, till the}^ open to me, 
And lay my little blossom at my feet. 
My babe, my sweet Agla'ia, my one 

child : 
And I will take her up and go my way. 
And satisfy my soul with kissing her : 
Ah ! what might that man not deserve 

of me 
Who gave me back my child 1 " " Be 

comforted," 
Said Cyril, " you shall have it : " but 

again 
She veil'd her brows, and prone she 

sank, and so 
Like tender things that being caught 

feign death. 
Spoke not, nor stirr'd. 

By this a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camji and inward raced 

the scouts 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at 

hand. 
We left her by the woman, and with- 
out 
Found the gray kings at parle : and 

" Look you " cried 
My father " that our compact be f ul- 

fiU'd : 
You have spoilt this child ; she laughs 

at you and man : 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, 

and him : 
But red-faced war has rods of steel 

and fire ; 
She yields, or war." 

Then Gama turn'd to me: 
" We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy 

time 
With our strange girl : and yet they 

say that still 
You love her. Give us, then, your 

mind at large : 
How say you, war or not ? " 

" Not war, if possible, 
O king," I said, " lest from the abuse 

of war. 
The desecrated shrine, the trampled 



358 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



The smouldering homestead, and the 

household flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the com- 
mon wrong — 
A smoke go up thro' whicli I loom to 

her 
Three times a monster : now she 

lightens scorn 
At him that mars her plan, but then 

would hate 
(And every voice she talk'd with 

ratify it. 
And every face she look'd on justifyit) 
The general foe. More soluble is this 

knot, 
By gentleness than war. I want her 

love. 
What were I nigher this altho' we 

dash'd 
Your cities into shards with catapults, 
She would not love ; — or brought her 

chain'd, a slave. 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, 
Not ever would she love ; but brood- 
ing turn 
The book of scorn, till all my flitting 

chance 
Were caught within the record of her 

wrongs, 
And crush'd to death: and rather, 

Sire, than this 
I would the old God of war himself 

were dead, 
Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills. 
Rotting on some wild shore with ribs 

of wreck. 
Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd 

in ice, 
Not to Ije molten out." 

And roughly spake 
My father, " Tut, you know them not, 

the girls. 
Boy, when I hear you prate I almost 

think 
That idiot legend credible. Look 3'ou, 

Sir! 
Man is the hunter; woman is his 

game : 
The sleek and shining creatures of the 

chase. 
We hunt them for the beauty of their 

skins ; 
They love us for it, and we ride them 

down. 
Wheedling and siding with them ! 

Out ! for shame ! 
Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear 

to them 
As he that does the thing they dare 

not do, 
Breathing and sounding beauteous 

battle, comes 
W^ith the air of the trumpet round 

him, and leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by 

the score 



Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, tho' 

dash'd with death 
He reddens what he kisses : thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good 

wife. 
Worth winning; but this firebrand — 

gentleness 
To such as her ! if Cyril spake her true. 
To catch a dragon in a cherry net. 
To trip a tigress with a gossamer. 
Were wisdom to it." 

" Yea but Sire," I cried, 
" Wild natures need wise curbs. The 

soldier ? No : 
What dares not Ida do that she should 

prize 
The soldier ? I beheld her, when slie 

rose 
The yesternight, and storming in ex- 
tremes. 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance 

down 
Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd 

the death, 
No, not the soldier's : yet I hold her, 

king. 
True woman : but you clash them all 

in one, 
That liave as many differences as 

we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 
As oak from elm : one loves the sol- 
dier, one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, 

one that. 
And some unworthily; their sinless 

faith, 
A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty. 
Glorifying clown and satyr ; whence 

they need 
More breadth of culture : is not Ida 

right ? 
They worth it ? truer to the law with- 
in ? 
Severer in the logic of a life 1 
Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 
Of earth and heaven ? and she of 

whom you speak, 
My mother, looks as whole as some 

serene 
Creation minted in the golden moods 
Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, 

a touch, 
But pure as lines of green that streak 

the wliite 
Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves ; 

I say. 
Not like the piebald miscellany, man, 
Bursts of great heart and slips in 

sensual mire. 
But whole and one: and take them 

all-in-all, 
Were we ourselves but half as good, 

as kind. 
As truthful, much that Ida claims as 

right 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



359 



Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly 

theirs 
As dues of Nature. To our point : 

not war : 
Lest I lose all." 

"Nay, nay, you spake but sense," 
Said Gama. " We remember love 

ourself 
In our sweet youth ; we did not rate 

him then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with 

blows. 
You talk almost like Ida : she can talk ; 
And there is something in it as you 

say : 
But you talk kindlier : we esteem you 

for it. — 
He seems a gracious and a gallant 

Prince, 
I would he had our daughter : for the 

rest. 
Our own detention, why, the causes 

weigh'd. 
Fatherly fears — you used us cour- 
teously — 
We would do much to gratify your 

Prince — 
We pardon it; and for your ingress 

here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair 

land, 
You did but come as goblins in the 

night. 
Nor in the furrow broke the plough- 
man's head. 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the 

milking-maid. 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of 

cream : 
But let your Prince (our royal word 

upon it, 
He comes back safe) ride with us to 

our lines, 
And speak with Arac : Arac's word 

is thrice 
As ours with Ida : something may be 

done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see 

us friends. 
You, likewise, our late guests, if so 

you will. 
Follow us : who knows ? we four may 

build some plan 
Foursquare to opposition." 

Here he reach'd 
White hands of farewell to my sire, 

who growl'd 
An answer which, half-muffled in his 

beard, 
Let so much out as gave us leave to 

go. 

Then rode we with the old king 
across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings 
of Spring 



In every bole, a song on every spray 
Of l>irds that piped their Valentines, 

and woke 
Desire in me to infuse my tale of 

love 
In the old king's ears, who promised 

help, and oozed 
All o'er with honey'd answer as we 

rode 
And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy 

dews 
Gather'd by night and peace, with 

each light air 
On our mail'd heads : but other 

thoughts than Peace 
Burnt in us, when we saw the em- 
battled squares. 
And squadrons of the Prince, tramp- 
ling the flowers 
With clamor : for among them rose a 

cry 
As if to greet the king; they made a 

halt ; 
The horses yell'd ; they clash'd their 

arms ; the drum 
Beat; merrily -blowing shrill'd the 

martial fife ; 
And in the blast and bray of the long 

horn 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner : anon to meet us lightly 

pranced 
Three captains out ; nor ever had I 

seen 
Such thews of men : the midmost and 

the highest 
Was Arac ; all about his motion 

clung 
The shadow of las sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, 

made them glance 
Like those three stars of the airy 

Giant's zone. 
That glitter burnish'd by the frosty 

dark ; 
And as the fiery Sirius alters hue. 
And bickers into red and emerald, 

shone 
Their morions, wash'd with morning, 

as they came. 

And I that prated peace, when first 

I heard 
War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of 

of force, 
Whose home is in the sinews of a 

man, 
Stir in me as to strike : then took the 

king 
His three broad sons ; with now a 

wandering hand 
And now a pointed finger, told them all : 
A common light of smiles at our dis- 
guise 
Broke from their lips, and, ere the 

windy jest 



360 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Had labor'd down within his ample 

lungs, 
The genial giant, Arac, roU'd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in 

words. 

•" Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he 

himself 
Your captive, yet my father wills not 

war : 
And, 'sdeath ! myself, what care I, 

war or no ? 
But then this question of your troth 

remains : 
And tliere's a downright honest mean- 
ing in her ; 
She flies "too high, she flies too high ! 

and yet 
She ask'd but space and fairplay for 

her scheme ; 
She prest and prest it on me — I my- 
self. 
What know I of these things ? but, 

life and soul ! 
I thought her half-right talking of her 

wrongs ; 
I say she flies too high, 'sdeath ! what 

of that ? 
I take her for the flower of woman- 
kind. 
And so I often told her, right or wrong, 
And, Prince, she can be sweet to those 

slie loves. 
And, right or wrong, I care not : this 

is all, 
I stand upon her side : she made me 

swear it — 
'Sdeath — and with solemn rites by 

candlelight — 
Swear by St. something — I forget 

her name — 
Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest 

men ; 
She was a princess too ; and so I 

swore. 
Come, this is all ; she will not : waive 

your claim : 
If not, the foughten field, what else, 

at once 
Decides it, 'sdeath ! against my 

father's will." 

I lagg'd in answer loth to render up 
My precontract, and loth by brainless 

war 
To cleave the rift of difference deeper 

yet; 
Till one of those two brothers, half 

aside 
And fingering at the hair about his 

lip, 
To prick us on . to combat " Like to 

like! 
The woman's garment hid the 

woman's heart." 



A taunt that clench'd his purpose 
like a blow ! 

For fiery-short was Cyril's counter- 
scoff. 

And sharp I answer'd, touch'd upon 
the point 

Where idle boys are cowards to their 
shame, 

" Decide it here : why not ? we are 
three to three." 

Then spake the third " But three to 
three ? no more ? 

No more, and in our noble sister's 
cause ? 

More, more, for honor : every captain 
waits 

Himgry for honor, angry for his king. 

More, more, some fifty on a side, that 
each 

May breathe himself, and quick ! by 
overthrow 

Of these or those, the question set- 
tled die." 

" Yea," answer'd I, " for this wild 

wreath of air. 
This flake of rainbow flying on the 

highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honor, if 

ye will. 
It needs must be for honor if at all : 
Since, what decision ? if we fail, we 

fail. 
And if v.'e win, we fail : she would not 

keep 
Her compact." " 'Sdeath ! but we 

will send to her," 
Said Arac, " worthy reasons why she 

should 
Bide by this issue : let our missive thro', 
And you shall have her answer by 

the word." 

" Boys ! " shriek'd the old king, but 

vainlier than a hen 
To her false daughters in the pool ; 

for none 
Regarded ; neither seem'd there more 

to say : 
Back rode we to my father's camp, 

and found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the 

gates, 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our 

claim. 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's life : three 

times he went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none 

appear'd : 
He batter'd at the doors ; none came : 

the next. 
An awful voice within had warn'd 

him thence : 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



361 



The third, and those eight daughters 

of the plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and 

caught his hair, 
And so belabor'd him on rib and 

cheek 
They made him wild : not less one 

glance he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd 

there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, 

firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and 

the noise 
Of arms ; and standing like a stately 

Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag, 
When storm is on the heights, and 

right and left 
Suck'd from the dark heart of the 

long hills roll 
The torrents, dash'd to the vale: and 

yet her will 
Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. 

But when I told the king that I 

was pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he 

clash'd 
His iron palms together with a cry ; 
Himself would tilt it out among the 

lads : 
But overborne by all his bearded 

lords 
With reasons drawn from age and 

state, perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce 

demur : 
And many a bold knight started up in 

heat. 
And sware to combat for my claim 

till death. 

All on this side the palace ran the 
field 

Flat to the garden-wall : and likewise 
here, 

Above the garden's glowing blossom- 
belts, 

A column'd entry shone and marble 
stairs. 

And great bronze valves, emboss'd 
with Tomyris 

And what she did to Cyrus after fight. 

But now fast barr'd : so here upon 
the flat 

All that long morn the lists were 
hammer'd up, 

And all that morn the heralds to and 
fro, 

VV^ith message and defiance, went and 
came; 

Last, Ida's answer, in royal hand. 

But shaken here and there, and rol- 
ling words 

Oration-like. T kiss'd it and I read. 



" O brother, you have known the 

pangs we felt, 
What heats of indignation when we 

heard 
Of those that iron-cramp'd their 

women's feet ; 
Of lands in which at the altar the 

poor bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift 

a scourge ; 
Of living hearts that crack within the 

fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots ; 

and of those, — 
Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, 

fling 
Their pretty maids in the running 

flood, and swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the 

heart 
Made for all noble motion : and I saw 
That equal baseness lived in sleeker 

times 
With smoother men : the old leaven 

leaven 'd all: 
Millions of throats would bawl for 

civil rights. 
No woman named : therefore I set 

my face 
Against all men, and lived but for 

mine own. 
Far off from men I built a fold for 

them : 
I stored it full of rich memorial : 
I fenced it round with gallant insti- 
tutes. 
And biting laws to scare the beasts 

of prey 
And prosper'd ; till a rout of saucy 

boys 
Brake on us at our books, and marr'd 

our peace, 
Mask'd like our maids, blustering I 

know not what 
Of insolence and love, some pretext 

held 
Of baby troth, invalid, since my 

will 
Seal'd not the bond — the striplings ! 

— for their sport ! — 
I tamed ray leopards : shall I not 

tame these ? 
Or you ? or I ? for since you think me 

touch 'd 
In honor — what, I would not aught 

of false — 
Is not our cause pure "? and whereas I 

know 
Your prowess, Arac, and what 

mother's blood 
You draw from, fight ; you failing, I 

abide 
What end soever : fail you will not. 

Still 
Take not his life : he risk'd it for my 

own ; 



362 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



His mother lives : yet whatsoe'er you 

do, 
Fight and fight well; strike and strike 

home. dear 
Brothers, the woman's Angel guards 

you, you 
The sole men to be mingled with our 

cause, 
The sole men we shall prize in the 

aftertime. 
Your very armor hallow'd, and your 

statues 
Rear'd, sung to, when, this gad-fly 

brush'd aside, 
We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to 

move 
With claim on claim from right to 

right, till she 
Whose name is yoked with children's, 

know herself ; 
And Knowledge in our own land 

make her free. 
And, ever following those two crowned 

twins, 
Commerce and conquest, shower the 

fiery grain 
Of freedom broadcast over all that 

orbs 
Between the Northern and the Southern 



Then came a postscript dash'd 

across the rest. 
" See that there be no traitors in your 

camp : 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to 

trust 
Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt- 
plague of men ! 
Almost our maids were better at their 

homes. 
Than thus man-girled here : indeed I 

think 
Our chiefest comfort is the little child 
Of one unworthy mother; which she 

left : 
She shall not have it back : the child 

shall grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her 

mind. 
I took it for an hour in mine own bed 
This morning: there the tender orphan 

hands 
Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm 

from thence 
The wrath I nursed against the world : 

farewell." 

I ceased ; he said, " Stubborn, but 
she may sit 

Upon a king's right hand in thunder- 
storms, 

And breed up warriors ! See now, tho' 
yourself 



Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to 

sloughs 
That swallow common sense, tlie 

spindling king, 
This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, the 

woman takes it uji. 
And topples down the scales ; but this 

is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of 

all; 
Man for the field and woman for tlie 

hearth : 
Man for the sword and for the needle 

she : 
Man with the head and woman with 

heart : 
Man to command and woman to 

obey; 
All else confusion. Look you ! the 

gray mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny 

shrills 
From tile to scullery, and her small 

goodman 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the 

fires of Hell 
Mix with his hearth: but you — she's 

yet a colt — 
Take, break her : strongly groom'd and 

straitly curb'd 
She might not rank with those detest- 
able 
That let the bantling scald at home, 

and brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs 

in the street. 
They say she's comely; there's the 

fairer chance : 
I like her none the less for rating at 

her ! 
• Besides, the woman wed is not as we, 
But suffers change of frame. A lusty 

brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. 

Boy, 
The bearing and training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom." 



Thus the hard old king : 
I took my leave, for it was nearly 

noon: 
I pored upon her letter which I held. 
And on the little clause " take not his 

life : " 
I mused on that wild morning in the 

woods. 
And on the " Follow, follow, thou shalt 

win : " 
I thought on all the wrathful king had 

said. 
And how the strange betrothment 

was to end : 
Then I reniember'd that burnt sor- 
cerer's curse 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



363 



That one should fight with shadows 

and should fall ; 
And like a flash the weird affection 

came : 
King, camp and college turn'd to liol- 

low shows ; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts, 
And doing battle with forgotten 

ghosts, 
To dream myself the shadow of a 

dream : 
And ere I woke it was the point of 

noon, 
The lists were ready. Empanoplied 

and plumed 
"We enter 'd in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet 

blared 
At the barrier like a wild horn in a 

land 
Of echoes, and a moment, and once 

more 
The trumpet, and again : at which tlie 

storm 
Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge 

of spears 
And riders front to front, until they 

closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivering 

points, 
And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream, 

I dream'd 
Of fighting. On his haunches rose 

the steed. 
And into fiery splinters leapt the 

lance, 
And out of stricken helmets sprang 

the fire. 
Part sat like rocks: part reel'd but 

kept their seats : 
Part roll'd on the earth and rose 

again and drew: 
Part stumbled mixt with floundering 

horses. Down 
From those two bulks at Arac's side, 

and down 
From Arac's arm, as from a giant's 

flail. 
The large blows rain'd, as here and 

everywhere 
He rode the mellay, lord of the ring- 
ing lists. 
And all the plain, — brand, mace, and 

shaft, and shield — 
Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil 

bang'd 
With hammers ; till I thought, can 

this be he 
From Gama's dwarfish loins 1 if this 

be so. 
The mother makes us most — and in 

my dream 
I glanced aside, and saw the palace- 
front 
Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' 

eyes. 



And highest, among the statues, 

statue-like. 
Between a cymbal'd Miriam and a 

Jael, 
With Psyche's babe, was Ida watch- 
ing us, 
A single band of gold about her hair, 
Like a Saint's glory up in heaven : but 

she 
No saint — inexorable — no tender- 
ness — 
Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me 

fight, ■ 
Yea, let her see me fall ! with that I 

drave 
Among the thickest and bore down a 

Prince, 
And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make 

my dream 
All that I would. But that large- 
moulded man, 
His visage all agrin as at a wake, 
Made at me thro' the press, and, stag- 
gering back 
With stroke on stroke the horse and 

horseman, came 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud. 
Flaying the roofs and sucking up the 

drains. 
And shadowing down the champaign 

till it strikes 
On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and 

cracks, and splits, 
And twists the grain with such a roar 

that Earth 
Reels, and the herdsmen cry ; for 

everything 
Gave way before him : only Florian, he 
That loved me closer than his own 

right eye. 
Thrust in between; but Arac rode 

him down: 
And Cyril seeing it, push d against 

the Prince, 
With Psyche's color round his helmet, 

tough. 
Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at 

arms ; 
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that 

smote 
And threw him : last I spurr'd ; I felt 

my veins 
Stretch with fierce heat; a moment 

hand to hand, 
And sword to sword, and horse to 

horse we hung. 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the 

blade glanced, 
I did but shear a feather, and dream 

and truth 
Flow'd from me ; darkness closed me ; 

and I fell. 



Home they brought her warrior dead : 
She nor swooii'd, nor utter'd cry : 



364 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



All her maidens, watching, said, 
" She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthj' to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stept 

Took the face-cloth from the face; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years. 

Set his child upon her knee — 
Like summer tempestxame her tears - 
" Sweet my child, I livfe for thee." 



My dream had never died or lived 

again. 
As in some mystic middle state I lay ; 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard : 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me 

all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 

For so it seem'd, or so they said to 
me. 
That all things grew more tragic and 
more strange ; 




hike summer tempest ramt /icr teats — 
' Sweet my child, I live for thee.' " 



That when our side was vanquish'd 

and my cause 
For ever lost, there vvent up a great cry. 
The Prince is slain. My father heard 

and ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my 

casque 



And grovell'd on my body, and after 

him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglaia. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm : there on 
the roofs 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



365 



Like that great dame of Lapidotli she 
saner. 



"Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : the 
seed, 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the darli, 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 
A thousand anns and rushes to the Sun. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they 

came; 
The leaves were wet with women's tears : 

tbej' heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand : 
They mark'd it with the rod cross to the fall. 
And would have strown it, and are fall'n 

themselves. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they 

came. 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree ! 
But we will make it faggots for the hearth, 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and 

fioor, 
And boats .and bridges for the use of men. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they 

struck ; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, 

nor knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain; 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms, 
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder 

blade. 

"Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall 

grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power: and 

roll'd 
With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the 

fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 



" And now, maids, behold our 

sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken : fear wo 

not 
To break them more in their behoof, 

whose arms 
Champion'd our cause and won itwitli 

a daj' 
Blanch'd in our annals, and j^erpctual 

feast, 
When dames and heroines of the 

golden year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of 

Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three : 

but come. 
We will be liberal, since our rights 

are won. 
Let them not lie '\a. the tents with 

coarse mankind, 
111 nurses ; but descend, and ijroffer 

these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, 

that there 
Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender 

ministries 
Of female hands and hospitality." 



She spoke, anil with the babe yet 

in her arms, 
Descending, burst the great bronze 

valves, and led 
A hundred maids in train across the 

Park. 
Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, 

on they came, 
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest : 

by them went 
The enamor'd air sighing, and on 

their curls 
From the high tree the blossom waver- 
ing fell, 
And over them the tremulous isles of 

light 
Slided, they moving under shade : but 

Blanche 
At distance follow'd ; so they came : 

anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they 

wound 
Timorously ; and as the leader of the 

herd 
That holds a stately fretwork to the 

Sun, 
And follow'd up by a hundred airy 

does. 
Steps with a tender foot, light as on 

air. 
The lovely, lordly creature floated 

on 
To where her wounded bretliren lay ; 

there stay'd; 
Knelt on one knee, — the child on one, 

— and prest 
Their hands, and call'd them dear 

deliverers. 
And happy warriors, and immortal 

names. 
And said "You shall not lie in the 

tents but here. 
And nursed by those for whom you 

fought, and served 
With female hands and hospitality." 

Then, whether moved by this, or 

was it chance, 
She past my way. Up started from 

my side 
The old lion, glaring with his wlielp- 

less eye. 
Silent; but when she saw me lying 

stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly 

pale, 
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd ; and when 

she saw 
The haggard father's face and rev- , 

erend beard 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the 

blood 
Of his own son, shudder'd, a twitch of 

pain 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her 

forehead past 



366 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



A shadow, and her hue changed, and 

she said : 
" He saved my life : my brother slew 

him for it." 
No more : at which the king in bitter 

scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and 

the tress, 
And held them up : she saw them, 

and a day 
Rose from the distance on her memory. 
When the good Queen, her mother, 

shore the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady 

Blanche ; 
And then once more she look'd at my 

pale face 
Till understanding all the foolish 

work 
Of fancy, and the bitter close of all, 
Her iron will was broken in her 

mind ; 
Her noble heart was molten in her 

breast , 
She bow'd, she set the child on the 

earth ; she laid 
A feeling linger on my brows, and 

presently 
" O Sire," she said, " he lives • he is 

not dead 
let me have him with my brethren 

here 
In our own palace : we will tend on 

him 
Like one of these, if so, by any 

means, 
To lighten this great clog of thanks, 

that make 
Our progress falter to the woman's 

goal." 

She said : but at the happy word 

" he lives " 
My father stoop'd, re-father'd o'er my 

wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen life, 
With brow to brow like night and 

evening mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche 

ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by 

us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden 

brede, 
Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the 

grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother and 

began 
. A blind and babbling laughter, and 

to dance 
Its body, and reach its fatling inno- 
cent arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the 

appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamoring out " Mine 

— mine — not yours. 



It is not yours, but mine : give me the 

child " 
Ceased all on tremble : piteous was 

the cry : 
So stood the unhappy mother open- 

mouth'd. 
And turn'd each face her way : wan 

was her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming 

mantle torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her 

eye. 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, 

and half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, 

burst 
The laces toward her babe ; but she 

nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida 

heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, 

stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her 

glance 
The mother, me, the child, but he 

that lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
TrailM himself up on one knee : then 

he drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down 

she look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying 

as it seem'd, 
Or self-involved ; but when she learnt 

his face. 
Remembering his ill-omen'd song, 

arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and 

o'er him grew 
Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and 

he said : 

" O fair and strong and terrible 5 

Lioness 
That with your long locks play the 

Lion's mane ! 
But Love and Nature, these are two 

more terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on 

our necks, 
We vanquish'd, you the Victor of 

your will. 
What would you more ? give her the 

child ! remain 
Orb'd in your isolation : he is dead, 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you 

be: ■" 

Win you the hearts of women; and 

beware 
Lest, where you seek the common 

love of these. 
The common hate with the revolving 

wheel 
Should drag you down, and some 

great Nemesis 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



367 



Break from a darken'd future, crown'd 

with fire. 
And tread you out for ever : but how- 

soe'er 
Fix'd in yourself, never in your own 

arms 
To hold your own, deny not hers to 

her, 
Give her the child ! O if, I say, you 

keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if 

you loved 
The breast that fed or arra that dan- 
dled you, 
Or own one port of sense not flint to 

prayer. 
Give her the child ! or if you scorn 

to lay it. 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt 

with yours. 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her 

one fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could 

not kill. 
Give wie it: / will give it her." 

He said : 
At first her eye with slow dilation 

roll'd 
Dry flame, she listening; after sank 

and sank 
And, into mournful twilight mellow- 
ing, dwelt 
Full on the child ; she took it : 

"Pretty bud! 
Lily of the vale ! half open'd bell of 

the woods ! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when 

a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken sys- 
tem made 
No purple in the distance, mystery. 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, 

farewell ; 
These men are hard upon us as of old. 
We two must part : and yet how fain 

was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in 

mine, to think 
I might be something to thee, when I 

felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren 

breast 
In the dead prime : but may thy 

mother prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false to 

me! 
And, if thou needs must bear the 

yoke, I wish it 
Gentle as freedom " — here she kiss'd 

it : then — 
" All good go with thee ! take it, Sir," 

and so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed 

hands. 
Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as 

she sprang 



To meet it, with an eye that swum in 
thanks ; 

Then felt it sound and whole from 
head to foot. 

And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close 
enough. 

And in her hunger mouth'd and mum- 
bled it, 

And hid her bosom with it; after that 

Put on more calm and added suppli- 
antly : 

" We two were friends : I go to 

mine own land 
For ever : flnd some other : as for me 
I scarce am fit for your great plans : 

yet speak to me. 
Say one soft word and let me part 

forgiven." 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the 

child. 
Then Arac. " Ida — 'sdeath ! you 

blame the man ; 
You wrong yourselves — the woman 

is so hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to 

me ! 
I am your warrior : I and mine have 

fought 
Your battle : kiss her ; take her hand, 

she weeps : 
'Sdeath ! I would sooner fight thrice 

o'er than see it." 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the 

ground, 
And reddening in the furrows of his 

chin. 
And moved beyond his custom, Gama 

said : 

" I've heard that there is iron in the 

blood, 
And I believe it. Not one word ? not 

one ■? 
Whence drew you this steel temper ? 

not from me. 
Not from your mother, now a saint 

with saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard 

her say it — 
' Our Ida has a heart' — just ere she 

died — 
' But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still ' and I — I sought 

for one — 
All people said she had authority — 
The Lady Blanche : much profit ! 

Not one word ; 
No ! tho' your father sues : see how 

you stand 
Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good 

knights maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to 

death. 



368 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



For your wild whim: and was it then 

for this, 
Was it for this we gave our palace up. 
Where we withdrew from summer 

heats and state, 
And had our wine and chess beneath 

the planes, 
And many a pleasant hour with her 

that's gone. 
Ere you were born to vex us "? Is it 

kind ? 
Speak to her I say : is this not she of 

whom, 
When first she came, all fiush'd you 

said to me 
Now had you got a friend of your 

own age, 
Now could you share your thought ; 

now should men see 
Two women faster welded in one 

love 
Than pairs of wedlock ; she you 

walk'd with, she 
You talk'd with, wliole nights long, up 

in the tower, 
Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimutli, 
And right ascension. Heaven knows 

what ; and now 
A word, but one, one little kindly word. 
Not one to spare her ; out upon you, 

flint! 
You love nor lier, nor me, nor any ; nay. 
You shame your mother's judgment 

too. Not one ? 
You will noti well — no heart have 

you, or such 
As fancies like the vermin in a nut 
Have fretted all to dust and bitter- 
ness." 
So said the small king moved beyond 

his wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of 

her force 
By many a varying influence and so 

long. 
Down thro' her limbs a drooping lan- 
guor wept : 
Her head a little bent ; and on her 

mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded 

moon 
In a still water : then brake out my 

sire. 
Lifting his grim head from my 

wounds. " O you. 
Woman, whom we thought woman 

even now. 
And were half fool'd to let you tend 

our son, 
Because he might have wish'd it — 

but we see 
The accomplice of your madness un- 

forgiven. 
And think that you might mix his 

draught with death, 



When your skies change again : the 

rougher hand 
Is safer : on to the tents : take up the 

Prince." 

He rose, and while each ear was 
prick'd to attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that 

dimm'd lier broke 
A genial warmth and light once 

more, and shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad 
friend. 

" Come liither, 

Psyche," she cried out, " embrace 

me, come 

Quick while I melt ; make reconcile- 
ment sure 

With one that cannot keep her mind 
an hour : 

Come to the hollow heart they slander 
so! 

Kiss and be friends, like cliildrcn 
being chid ! 

/ seem no more : / want forgiveness 
too : 

1 should have had to do with none 

but maids. 
That have no links with men. Ah 

false but dear. 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why ? — 

why ■? — Yet see, 
Before these kings we embrace you 

yet once more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion. 
And trust, not love, you less. 

And now, O sire. 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait 

upon him. 
Like mine own brother. For my debt 

to him, 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I 

know it ; 
Taunt me no more : yourself and 

yours shall have 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our 

maids 
Till happier times each to her proper 

hearth : 
What use to keep them here — now ? 

grant my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help ; speak to 

the king : 
Thaw this male nature to some touch 

of that 
Which kills me with myself, and 

drags me down 
From my fixt height to mob me uj) 

with all 
The soft and milky rabble of woman- 
kind, 
Poor weakling ev'n as they are." 

Passionate tears 
Follow 'd : the king replied not : Cyril 
said : 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



369 



" Your brother, Lady — Florian, — 

ask for him 
Of your great head — for he is 

wounded too — 
That you may tend upon him witli the 

prince." 
" Ay so," said Ida with a bitter smile, 
" Our laws arc broken ; let him enter 

too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mourn- 
ful song. 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. " Ay so," she 

said, 
"I stagger in the stream: I cannot keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling 

hour: 
We break our laws with ease, but let 

it be." 
" Ay so ? " said Blanche : " Amazed 

am I to hear 
Your Highness : but your Highness 

breaks with ease 
The law your Highness did not make : 

'twas I. 
I had been wedded wife, I knew man- 
kind, 
And block'd tliem out ; but these men 

came to woo 
Your Highness — verily I think to 

win." 

So she, and turn'd askance a wintry 

eye: 
But Ida with a voice, that like a bell 
ToU'd by an earthquake in a trembling 

tower, 
Rang ruin, answer'd full of grief and 

scorn. 

" Fling our doors wide ! all, all, not 

one, but all, 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul. 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend 

or foe. 
Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls 

flit. 
Till the storm die ! but had you stood 

by us, 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from 

his base 
Had left us rock. She fain would 

sting us too. 
But shall not. Pass, and mingle with 

your likes. 
We brook no further insult but are 

gone." 

She turn'd ; the very nape of her 

white neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but tlie 

Prince 
Her brother came ; the king her father 

charm'd 
Her wounded soul with words : nor 

did mine own 



Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his 
hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead 

weights, and bare 
Straight to the doors : to them the 

doors gave way 
Groaning, and in the Vestal entry 

shriek'd 
The virgin marble under iron heels : 
And on they moved and gain'd the 

hall, and there 
Rested : but great the crush was, and 

each base. 
To left and right, of those tall columns 

drown 'd 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers: at the further 

end 
Was Ida by the throne, tiie two great 

cats 
Close by her, like supporters on a 

shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear : but in the cen- 
tre stood 
The common men with rolling eyes; 

amazed 
They glared upon the women, and 

aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, 

save 
When armor clash'd or jingled, 

while the day, 
Descending, struck athwart the hall, 

and shot 
A, flying splendor out of brass and 

steel, 
That o'er the statues leapt from head 

to head. 
Now fired an angry Pallas on the 

helm. 
Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on 

flame. 
And now and then an echo started up. 
And shuddering fled from room to 

room, and died 
Of fright in far apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, 

and thro' 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred 

doors 
To one deep chamber shut from 

sound, and due 
To languid limbs and sickness ; left 

me in it ; 
And others otherwhere they laid ; and 

all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing 

home 
Till happier times ; but some were left 

of those 
Held sagest, and the great lords out 

and in, 



370 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



From those two hosts that lay beside 

the walls, 
Walked at their will, and everything 

was chang'd. 

vn. 

Ask me no more : the moon may draw the 
sea; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and 

take the shape 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; 
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I 
give 'i 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are 
eeal'd : 
I strove against the stream and all in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the main : 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; 
Ask me no more. 



So was their sanctuary violated. 
So their fair college turn'd to hos- 
pital ; 
At first with all confusion : by and 

by 

Sweet order lived again with other 

laws : 
A kindlier influence reign'd ; and 

everywhere 
Low voices with the ministering hand 
Hung round the sick : the maidens 

came, they talk'd. 
They sang, they read : till she not fair 

began 
To gather light, and she that was, be- 
came 
Her former beauty treble ; and to and 

fro 
AVith books, with flowers, with Angel 

offices, 
Like creatures native unto gracious 

act. 
And in their own clear element, they 

moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, 
And hatred of her weakness, blent 

with shame. 
Old studies f ail'd ; seldom she spoke : 

but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone 

for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of 

men 
Darkening her female field : void was 

her use, 
And she as one that climbs a peak to 

gaze 
O'er land and main, and sees a great 

black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall 

of night. 



Blot out the slope of sea from verge 

to shore. 
And suck the blinding splendor from 

the sand, 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn 

by tarn 
Expunge the world : so fared she gaz- 
ing there ; 
So blacken'd all her world in secret, 

blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain ; till 

down she came. 
And found fair peace once more among 

the sick. 



And twilight dawn'd ; and morn by 
morn the lark 

Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, 
but I 

Lay silent in the muffled cage of life ; 

And twilight gloom'd ; and broader- 
grown the bowers 

Drew the great night into themselves, 
and Heaven, 

Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, 

Deeper than those weird doubts could 
reach me, lay 

Quite sunder'd from the moving Uni- 
verse, 

Nor knew what eye was on me, nor 
the hand 

That nursed me, more than infants in 
their sleep. 



But Psyche tended Florian : with 

her oft, 
Melissa came ; for Blanche had gone, 

but left 
Her child among us, willing she should 

keep 
Court-favor : here and there the small 

bright head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the 

couch. 
Or thro' the parted silks the tender face 
Peep'd, shining in upon the wounded 

man 
With blush and smile, a medicine in 

themselves 
To wile the length from languorous 

hours, and draw 
The sting from pain ; nor seem'd it 

strange that soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair 

charities 
Join'd at her side ; nor stranger seem'd 

that hearts 
So gentle, so employ'd, should close 

in loA'c, 
Than when two dewdrops on the petal 

shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble 

deeper down. 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



371 



Less prosperously the second suit 

obtain'd 
At first with Psyche. Not tho' Blanche 

had sworn 
That after that dark night among the 

fields 
She needs must wed him for her own 

good name ; 
Not tho' he built upon the babe re- 
stored ; 
Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, 

but fear'd 
To incense the Head once more ; till 

on a day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she 

hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which 

her face 
A little flush'd, and she past on ; but 

each 
Assumed from thence a half-consent 

involved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were 

at peace. 

Nor only these : Love in the sacred 

halls 
Held carnival at will, and flying struck 
With showers of random sweet on 

maid and man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my 

claim, 
Nor did mine own now reconciled ; nor 

yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again 

and whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she 

sat: 
Then came a change ; for sometimes 

I would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, 
And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 
"You are not Ida;" clasp it once again. 
And call her Ida, tho' I know her not, 
And call lier sweet, as if in irony, 
And call her hard and cold which 

seem'd a truth : 
And still she fear'd that I should lose 

my mind. 
And often she believed that I should 

die : 
Till out of long frustration of her care, 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary 

noons. 
And watches in the dead, the dark, 

when clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thro' the palace 

floors, or call'd 
On flying Time from all their silver 

tongues — 
And out of memories of her kindlier 

days. 



And sidelong glances at my father's 

grief. 
And at the happy lovers heart in 

heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken 

love. 
And lonely listenings to my mutter'd 

dream. 
And often feeling of the helpless 

hands, 
And wordless broodings on the wasted 

cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourish 'd up. 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, 

to these. 
Love, like an Alpine harebell himg 

with tears 
By some cold morning glacier ; frail 

at first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself. 
But such as gather'd color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but well-nigh close 

to death 
For weakness : it was evening : silent 

light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein 

were wrought 
Two grand designs ; for on one side 

arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and 

. storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, 

they cramm'd 
The forum, and half-crush'd among 

the rest 
A dwarf-like Cato cower'd. On the 

other side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax ; be- 
hind, 
A train of dames : by axe and eagle 

sat, 
With all their foreheads drawn in 

Roman scowls. 
And half the wolf's-milk curdled in 

their veins, 
The fierce triumvirs ; and before them 

paused 
Hortensia pleading: angry was her 

face. 

I saw the forms : I knew not where 

I was : 
They did but look like hollow shows ;. 

nor more 
Sweet Ida : palm to palm she sat : the 

dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her 

shape 
And rounder seem'd : I moved : I 

sigh'd : a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon 

my hand : 
Then all for languor and self-pity 

ran 



372 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



Mine down my face, and with what 
life I had, 

And like a flower that cannot all un- 
fold. 

So drcnch'd it is with tempest, to the 
sun, 

Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on 
her 

Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whis- 
peringly : 

" If you be, what I think you, some 

sweet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself : 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask }'ou nothing : only, if a dream, 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die 

to-night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I 

die." 

I could no more, but lay like one in 

trance. 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his 

friends. 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor 

make one sign, 
But lies and dreads his doom. She 

turn'd ; she paused ; 
She stoop'd ; and out of languor leapt 

a cry ; 
Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of 

death ; 
And I believed that in the living world 
M}' spirit closed with Itla's at the lips ; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms 

she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame ; and all 
Her falser self slipt from her like a 

robe, 
And left her woman, lovelier in her 

mood 
Than in her mould that other, when 

she came 
From barren deeps to conquer all 

with love ; 
And down the streaming crystal 

dropt ; and she 
Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides, 
Naked, a double light in air and wave, 
To meet her Graces, where they 

deck'd her out 
For worship without end ; nor end of 

mine, 
Stateliest, for fhee ! but mute she 

glided forth. 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank 

and slept, 
Fill'd thro' and thro' with Love, a 

happy sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke: she, near 

me, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she 

read. 



" Now sleeps the erimson petal, now the 
white; 
Nor waves the cypress In the palace walk; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porjjhyiy font : 
The tire-fly wakens : waken tuou with me. 

Now droopa the milkwhite peacock like a 
ghost, 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up. 
And slips into the tjosom of the lake : 
Bo fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my hosom and be lost in me." 

I heard her turn the page ; she 
found a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, 
she read : 

" Come down, O maid, from yonder moun- 
tain height : 
What pleasure lives in height (the. shepherd 

sang) 
In height and cold, the splendor of the hills? 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and 

cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come, 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And find him ; by the happy threshold, he. 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize. 
Or red with spirted purpJe of the vats, 
Or fo.xlike in the vine ; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the silver horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, 
Nor find him dropt upon the tirlhs of ice. 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: 
But follow ; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley ; let the wild 
Lean-lieaded Eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and 

spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water- 
smoke. 
That like a broken purpose waste in air : 
So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales 
Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, 
The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 
And murmuring of innumerable bees." 

So she low-toned ; while with shut 

eyes I lay 
Listening; then look'd. Pale was the 

perfect face; 
The bosom with long sighs labor'd ; 

and meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the 

luminous eyes. 
And the voice trembled and the hand. 

She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had 

fail'd 
In sweet humility ; had fail'd in all ; 
That all her labor was but as a block 
Left in the quarry ; but she still were 

loth. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



373 



She still were loth to yield herself to 

one 
That wholly scorn'd to help their 

equal right.* 
Against the sons of men, and barbar- 
ous laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their 

cause from her 
That wrong'd it, sought far less for 

truth than power 
In knowledge : something wild within 

her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat 

her down. 
And sh3 had nursed me there from 

week to week : 
Much had she learnt in little time. 

In part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts : yet was she but a 

girl — 
" Ah fool, and made myself a Queen 

of farce ! 
When comes another such ' never, I 

think. 
Till the Sun drop, dead, from the 

signs." 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon 

her hands, 
And her great heart thro' all the 

faultful Past 
"Went sorrowing in a pause I dared 

not break ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark 

world 
Was lispt about the acacias, and a 

bird. 
That early woke to feed her little ones. 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for 

light : 
She moved, and at her feet the volume 

fell. 

"Blame not thyself too much," I 
said, " nor blame 

Too much the sons of men and bar- 
barous laws ; 

These were the rough ways of the 
world till now. 

Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, 
• that know 

The woman's cause is man's ; they 
rise or sink 

Together, dwarf 'd or godlike, bond or 
free : 

For she that out of Lethe scales with 
man 

The shining steps of Nature, shares 
with man 

His nights, his days, moves with him 
to one goal. 

Stays all the fair young planet in her 
hands — 

If she be small, slight-natured, miser- 
able, 



How shall men grow ? but work no 

more alone ! 
Our place is much : as far as in us lies 
We two will serve them both in aid- 
ing her — 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag 

her down — 
Will leave her space to burgeon out 

of all 
Within her — let her make herself 

her own 
To give or keep, to live and learn and 

be 
All tliat not liarms distinctive woman- 
hood. 
For woman is not undevelopt man. 
But diverse . could we make her as 

the man. 
Sweet Love were slain . his dearest 

bond is this. 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years liker must they 

grow ; 
The man be more of woman, she of 

man ; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral 

height, 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that 

throw the world ; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in child- 
ward care. 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger 

mind ; 
Till at the last she set herself to 

man 
Like perfect music unto noble words ; 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of 

Time, 
Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all 

their powers. 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Self-reverent each and reverencing 

each. 
Distinct in individualities. 
But like each other ev'n as those who 

love. , 
Then comes the statelier Eden back 

to men : 
Then reign the world's great bridals, 

chaste and calm : 
Then springs the crowning race of 

human-kind. 
May these things be ! " ' 

Sighing she spoke "I fear 
They will not." 

" Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud 

watchword rest 
Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought 

in thought. 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they 

grow, 



374 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



The single pure and perfect animal, 
The two-cell'd heart beating, with one 

full stroke, 
Life." 

And again sighing she spoke : " A 

dream 
That once was mine ! what woman 

taught you this ? " 



" Alone," I said, " from earlier than 
/ I know. 

Immersed in rich foreshadowings of 
the world, 

I loved the woman ; he, that doth not, 
lives 

A drowning life, besotted in sweet 
self. 

Or pines in sad experience worse than 
death, 

"Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt 
with crime : 

Yet was there one thro' whom I loved 
her, one 

Not learned, save in gracious house- 
hold ways. 

Not perfect, nay, but full of tender 
wants, 

No Angel, but a dearer being, all 
dipt 

In Angel instincts, breathing Para- 
dise, 

Interpreter between the Gods and 
men. 

Who look'd all native to her place, 
and yet 

On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a 
sphere 

Too gross to tread, and all male 
minds perforce 

Sway'd to her from their orbits as 
they moved, 

And girdled her with music. Happy 
he 

With such a mother ! faith in woman- 
kind 

Beats with his blood, and trust in all 
things high 

Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip 
and fall 

He shall not blind his soul with clay." 
" But I," 

Said Ida, tremulously, " so all un- 
like — 

It seems you love to cheat yourself 
with words : 

This mother is your model. I have 
heard 

Of your strange doubts : they well 
might be : I seem 

A mockery to my own self. Never, 
Prince ; 

You cannot love me." 

" Nay but thee," I said 

" From yearlong poring on thy pic- 
tured eyes, 



Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, 
and saw 

Thee woman thro' the crust of iron 
moods 

That mask'd thee from men's rever- 
ence up, and forced 

Sweet love on pranks of saucy boy- 
hood: now, 

Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' 
thee. 

Indeed I love : the new day comes, the 
lighf 

Dearer for night, as dearer thou for 
faults 

Lived over : lift thine eyes ; my doubts 
are dead, 

My haunting sense of hollow shows : 
the change, 

This truthful change in thee has kill'd 
it. Dear, 

Look up, and let thy nature strike on 
mine. 

Like yonder morning on the blind 
half-world ; 

Approach and fear not ; breathe upon 
my brows ; 

In that fine air I tremble, all the past 

Melts mist-like into this bright hour, 
and this 

Is morn to more, and all the rich to- 
come 

Reels, as the golden Autumn wood- 
land reels 

Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. 
Forgive me, 

I waste my heart in signs : let be. My 
bride, 

My wife, my life. we will walk this 
world. 

Yoked in all exercise of noble end. 

And so thro' those dark gates across 
the wild 

That no man knows. Indeed I love 
thee : come, 

Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine 
are one : 

Accomplish thou my manhood and 
thyself ; 

Lay thy sweet hands in mine and 
trust to me." 

CONCLUSION. 

So closed our tale, of which I give 

you all 
The random scheme as wildly as it 

rose : 
The words are mostly mine ; for when 

we ceased 
There came a minute's pause, and 

Walter said, 
" I wish she had not yielded ! " then to 

me, 
" What, if you drest it up poetically ! " 
So pray'd the men, the women : I gave 

assent : 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 



375 



Yet how to bind the scatter'd scheme 
of seven 

Together in one sheaf ? What style 
could suit ? 

The men required that I should give 
throughout 

The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, 

With which we banter'd little Lilia 
first : 

The women — and perhaps they felt 
their power, 

For something in the ballads which 
they sang, 

.Or in their silent influence as they sat, 

Had ever seem'd to wrestle with bur- 
lesque, 

And drove us, last, to quite a solemn 
close — 

They hated banter, wish'd for some- 
thing real, 

A gallant fight, a noble princess — 
why 

Not make her true-heroic — true- 
sublime ? 

Or all, they said, as earnest as the 
close ? 

Which yet with such a framework 
scarce could be. 

Then rose a little feud betwixt the 
two. 

Betwixt the mockers and the realists : 

And I, betwixt them both, to please 
them both, 

And yet to give the story as it rose, 

I moved as in a strange diagonal, 

And maybe neither pleased myself 
nor them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took 

no part 
In our dispute : the sequel of the tale 
Had touch'd her ; and she sat, she 

pluck'd the grass, 
She flung it from her, thinking : last, 

she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and 

said, 
" You — tell us what we are " who 

might have told, 
For she was cramm'd with theories 

out of books, 
But that there rose a shout : the gates 

were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarm- 
ing now. 
To take their leave, about the garden 

rails. 

So I and some went out to these : 
we climb'd 

The slope to Vivian-place, and turn- 
ing saw 

The happy valleys, half in light, and 
half 

Far-shadowing from the west, a land 
of peace; 



Gray halls alone among their massive 
groves ; 

Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic 
tower 

Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths 
of wheat ; 

The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; 
the seas ; 

A red sail, or a white ; and far be- 
yond. 

Imagined more than seen, the skirts 
of France. 

" Look there, a garden ! " said my 

college friend. 
The Tory member's elder son, " and 

tliere ! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps 

her olf, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within 

herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the 

ruled — 
Some sense of duty, something of a 

faith, 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves 

have made, 
Some patient force to change them 

when we will. 
Some civic manhood firm against the 

crowd — 
But yonder, whiff ! there comes a sud- 
den heat, 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his 

head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will 

not fight. 
The little boys begin to shoot and 

stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls 

the world 
In mock heroics stranger than our 

own ; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a schoolboys' barring 

out ; 
Too comic for the solemn things they 

are. 
Too solemn for the comic touches in 

them. 
Like our wild Princess with as wise 

a dream 
As some of theirs — God bless the 

narrow seas ! 
I wish they were a whole Atlantic 

broad." 

" Have patience," I replied, " our- 
selves are full 

Of social wrong; and maybe wildest 
dreams 

Are but tlie needful preludes of the 
truth : 

For me, the genial day, the happy 
crowd, 



376 



MAUD. 



The sport half-science, fill me with a 

faith, 
This fine old world of ours is but a 

child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give 

it time 
To learn its limbs : there is a hand 

that guides." 

In such discourse we gain'd the 

garden rails. 
And there we saw Sir Walter where 

he stood, 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks. 
Among six boys, head imder head, 

and look'd 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder'd genial Eng- 
lishman, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano and on 

grain, 
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler 

none ; 
Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy 

morn ; 
Now shaking hands with him, now 

him, of those 
That stood the nearest — now ad- 

dress'd to speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such 

as closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for 

the year 
To follow : a shout rose again, and 

made 
The long line of the approaching 

rookery swerve 
From the broad elms, and shook the 

branches of the deer 



From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, 

and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset ; 0, a 

shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that 

hails 
Premier or king ! Why should not 

these great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times 

a year 
To let the people breathe ? So thrice 

they cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they stream'd 

away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, 

and sat on, 
So much the gathering darkness 

charm'd : we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless 

reverie. 
Perchance upon the future man: the 

walls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and 

owls whoop'd. 
And gradually the powers of the 

night. 
That range above the region of the 

wind. 
Deepening the courts of twilight 

broke them up 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the 

worlds. 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven 

of Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly. 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of 

Sir Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well- 
pleased we went. 



MAUD; A'MONODRAMA. 

PART I. 
I. 



I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, 
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, 
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood. 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers " Death." 



For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found. 
His who had given me life — O father ! God ! was it well 1 — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground : 
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. 



Did he fling himself down ? who knows ? for a vast speculation had fail'd. 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair, 



MA UD. 377 



And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd, 
And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. 



I remember the time, for the roots of my liair were stirr'd 
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a whisper'd fright, 
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide tlie shuddering night. 



Villany somewhere! whose? One says, we are villains all. 
Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be maintained : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, 
Dropt oft' gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain'd. 



Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we have made them a curse, 

Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ; 

And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 

Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone ? 



But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind, 
When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word ? 
Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 



Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 

Of the golden age — why not ? I have neither hope nor trust ; 

May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint. 

Cheat and be cheated, and die : who knows ? we are ashes and dust. 



Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by, 
When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, like swine, 
AVhen only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie ; 
Peace in her vineyard — yes ! — but a company forges the wine. 



And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head. 
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife. 
And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, 
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life. 



And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villanous centre-bits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights. 
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits 
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights. 



When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee, 
And Timour-Mamraon grins on a pile of children's bones. 
Is it peace or war ? better, war ! loud war by land and by sea, 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. 



For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, 
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam. 
That the smooth-faced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter and till. 
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home. 



378 MA CD. 



"What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood 1 
Must I too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and die 
Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched swindler's lie 1 



Would there be sorrow for me ? there was love in the passionate shriek, 
Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave — 
"Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. 



I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. 
Wliy sliould I stay ? can a sweeter chance ever come to me here "? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain, 
Were it not wise if I fled from tlie place and the pit and the fear 1 



Workmen up at the Hall ! — they are coming back from abroad; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionaire ■ 
I have lieard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud ; 
I play'd with the girl when a child ; she promised tlien to be fair. 



Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes, 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all, — 



What is she now ? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on tlie moor; she will let me alone. 
Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse. 
I will bury myself in myself, and the Devil may pij)e to his own. 

II. 
Long have I sigh'd for a calm : God grant I may find it at last ! 
It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savor nor salt. 
But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past, 
Perfectly beautiful ; let it be granted her : where is the fault 1 
All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) 
Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null. 
Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had not been 
For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of the rose, 
Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full. 
Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose. 
From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen. 

Ill 

Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek, 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd. 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek. 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom ])rofound ; 
Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before 
Growing and fading and growing ui)()n nic without a sound. 
Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no more. 
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground. 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwrecking roar. 
Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down by tlie wave, 
Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. 



Jl/A UD. 
IV. 



A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 
In tlie little grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, like tlie bountiful season bland, 
When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer clime. 
Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea, 
The silent sapj)hire-spangled marriage ring of the land ? 



Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small ! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite ; 
And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies as a Czar ; 
And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers tlie Hall ; 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light ; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! 



"When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the race ? 
I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bow'd : 
I bow'd to his lady-sister as slie rode by on the moor; 
But the fire of a foolish pride llash'd over her beautiful face. 
child, you wrong your beaut}^ believe it, in being so proud ; 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor. 



I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal ; 

I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like 

A wiser epicurean, and let the world liave its way: 

For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal 

The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrike, 

And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. 



We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game 
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed ■? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame ; 
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 



A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran. 
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, 
So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man : 
He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not too base ? 



The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain. 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more 
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice. 



For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. 

Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about 1 

Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 



380 



MA UD. 



Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail 1 
Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout ? 
1 have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. 



Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways, 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot, 

Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub of lies ; 

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise 

Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not. 

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. 



And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, 
The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. 
Ah Maud, you milk-white fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. 
Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above ; 
Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will ; 
You have but fed on the roses and lain in the lilies of life. 



V. 



A voice by the cedar tree 

In the meadow under the Hall ! 

She is singing an air that is known to 

me, 
A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 
A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
Singing alone in the morning of life, 
In the happy morning of life and of May, 
Singing of men that in battle array, 
Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
March with banner and bugle and fife 
To the death, for their native land. 

II. 

Maud with her exquisite face. 

And wild voice pealing up to the 
sunny sky. 

And feet like sunny g»ms on an Eng- 
lish green, 

Maud in the light of her youth and 
her grace, 

Singing of Death, and of Honor that 
cannot die, 

Till I well could weep for a time so 
sordid and mean. 

And myself so languid and base. 



Silence, beautiful voice ! 

Be still, for you only trouble the 

mind 
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 
A glory I shall not find. 
Still ! I will hear you no more. 
For your sweetness hardly leaves me 

a choice 
But to move to the meadow and fall 

before 
Her feet on the meadow grass, and 

adore. 
Not her, who is neither courtly nor 

kind, 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 



VI. 

I. 
Morning arises stormy and pale, 
No sun, but a wannish glare 
In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, 
And the budded peaks of the wood are 

bow'd 
Caught and cuff'd by the gale : 
I had fancied it would be fair. 



Whom but Maud should I meet 
Last night, when the sunset burn'd 
On the blossom'd gable-ends 
At the head of the village street, 
Whom but Maud should I meet ? 
And she touch'd my hand with a smile 

so sweet. 
She made me divine amends 
For a courtesy not return'd. 

in. 
And thus a delicate spark 
Of glowing and growing light 
Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 
Kept itself warm in the heart of my 

dreams. 
Ready to burst in a color'd flame ; 
Till at last when the morning came 
In a cloud, it faded, and seems 
But an ashen-gray delight. 



What if with her sunny hair, 

And smile as sunny as cold, 

She meant to weave me a snare 

Of some coquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-like as of old 

Tq entangle me when we met, 

To liave her lion roll in a silken net 

And fawn at a victor's feet. 



Ah, what shall I be at fifty 
Should Nature keep me alive. 



AfA UD. 



381 



If I find the world so bitter 

When I am but twenty-five ? 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seem'd, 

And her smile were all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 



What if tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me. 
What if that dandy-despot, he. 
That jewell'd mass of millinery, 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull 
Smelling of musk and of insolence. 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof, 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn — 
What if he had told her yesterraorn 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd. 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes, 
That so, when the rotten hustings 

shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 



For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch 

and ward, 
Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea, too, myself from myself I guard, 
For often a man's own angry pride 
Is cap and bells for a fool. 



Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood, 
For am I not, am I not, here alone 
So many a summer since she died, 
My mother, who was so gentle and 



Living alone in an empty house. 
Here half-hid in the gleaming wood. 
Where I hear the dead at midday 

moan. 
And the shrieking rush of the wainscot 

mouse. 
And my own sad name in corners 

cried. 
When the shiver of dancing leaves is 

thrown 
About its echoing chambers wide. 
Till a morbid hate and horror have 

grown 
Of a world in which I have hardly 

mixt. 
And a morbid eating lichen fixt 
On a heart half-turn'd to stone. 



heart of stone, are you flesh, and 
caught 



By that you swore to withstand ? 
For what was it else within me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of 

love, 
That made my tongue so stammer and 

trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, 

her hand. 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
And the sunlight broke from her lip ? 



I have play'd with her when a child; 

She remembers it now we meet. 

Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled 

By some coquettish deceit. 

Yet, if she were not a cheat. 

If Maud were all that she seem'd, 

And her smile had all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 

VII. 



Did I hear it half in a doze 
Long since, I know not where ? 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 
When asleep in this arm-chair ? 



Men were drinking together. 
Drinking and talking of me ; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be." 



Is it an echo of something 
Eead with a boy's delight. 

Viziers nodding together 
In some Arabian night ? 



Strange, that I hear two men. 
Somewhere, talking of me ; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 
Will have plenty ; so let it be." 

VIII. 

She came to the village church. 
And sat by a pillar alone ; 
An angel watching an urn 
Wept over her, carved in stone ; 
And once, but once, she lifted her 

eyes. 
And suddenly, sweetly, strangely 

blush'd 
To find they were met by my own ; 
And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat 

stronger 
And thicker, until I heard no longer 
The snowy-banded, dilettante. 



3S2 



J/ J UD. 



Delicate-handed priest intone ; 

And thought, is it pride, and mused 

and sigh'd 
" Xo surely, no^y it cannot be pride." 

IX. 
I was walking a mile. 
More tlian a mile from tlie shore, 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor. 
And ridinj^ at set of day 
OA'er the dark moor land, 
Rapidly riding far away. 
She Avaved to me with her hand. 
There Avere two at her side. 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride, 
In a moment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
Then returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 



X. 



Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread 1 
Was not one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendor 

plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's 

head ? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died. 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd 

gloom 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutted 

mine 
Master of half a servile shire, 
And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line. 
Rich in the grace all women desire, 
Strong in the power that all men 

adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower, 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine. 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine. 
New as his title, built last year. 
There amid perky larches and pine, 
And over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 



What, has he found my jewel out ? 
For one of the two that rode at her 

side 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he : 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a 

bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance 

be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 



A rabbit moutii that is ever agape — 
Bought ? what is it he cannot buy ? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, 

base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched 

race. 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 



Last week came one to the county 

town, 
To preach our poor little armj' down, 
And play the game of tlie desjiot kings, 
TIio' the state has done it and thrice 

as well : 
This broad-brimm'd hawker of holy 

tilings. 
Whose car is cramm'd with his cotton, 

and rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his 

pence, 
This huckster put down war ! can he 

tell 
Whether war be a cause or a conse- 
quence ? 
Put down the passions that make 

earth Hell ! 
Down M'ith ambition, avarice, pride, 
Jealousy, down ! cut off from the mind 
The bitter springs of anger and fear ; 
Down too, down at your own fireside, 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
For each is at war with mankind. 



I wish I could hear again 

The chivalrous battle-song 

That she warbled alone in her joy ! 

I might persuade myself then 

She would not do herself this great 

wrong, 
To take a wanton dissolute boy 
Tor a man and leader of men. 



Ah God, for a man with heart, head, 

hand, 
Like some of the simple great ones 

gone 
For ever and ever by, 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 
Whatever they call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — one 
AVho can rule and dare not lie. 



And ah for a man to arise in me. 
That the man I am may cease to be ! 

XI. 



let the solid ground 

Not fail beneath my feet 
Before my life has found 



MA UD. 



383 



Wliat some liave found so sweet 
Then lot come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 
I shall have had my day. 

II. 
Let the s\Veot heavens endure, 

Not close and darken above me 
Before I am quite quite sure 

That there is one to lov." i:.c; 
Then let come what come may 
To a life that has hecn so sad, 
I shall have had my day. 

XII 

I. 
Birds in tlic higli Hall-garden 

Wlien twiliglit was falling, 
Maud, Maud,':Maud, Maud," 

They were crj'ing and calling. 

II. 
AVhere was Maud ? in or.r wood ; 

And I, who else, was with Iier, 
Gathering woodland lilies, 

jNIyriads blow together. 

III. 
Birds in. our wood sang 

Binging thro' the valleys, 
Maud is here, here, hero 

In among the lilies. 



I kiss'd her slender hand. 
She took tlie kiss sedately ; 

Maud is not seventeen, 
But she is tail and stately. 

V. 

I to cry out on pride 

Who liave won her favor! 
O Maiul were sure of Heaven 

If lowliness could save her. 



I know the way she went 
Home with her maiden posy, 

For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 

VII. 

Birds in the higli Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her, 

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud' 
One is come to woo her. 

VIII. 

Look, a liorse at the door, 

And little King Ciiarley snarling, 

Go back, my lord, across the moor, 
You are not her darling. 

XIII. 

I. 
Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I 
scorn, 



Is tliat a matter to make r.ie fret ? 
That a calamity hard to be borne 1 
Well, he may live to hate me yet. 
Fool that I am to be vext witli his pride ! 
I past him, I was crossing his lands ; 
He stood on tiie patli a little aside ; 
His face, as I grant, in spite of spite. 
Has a broad-blown comeliness, red 

and white, 
And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 
But his essences turn'd the live air sick, 
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Suun'd itself on his breast and his 

hands. 

II. 
Wiio shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowsliip ; 
But while I past he was humming an 

air, 
Stopt, and tlien witli a riding whij) 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot. 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonizcd me from liead to foot 
With a stony Britisli stare. 

HI. 
Why sits he here in his fatlicr's chair ? 
Tluit old man never comes to his place : 
Sliall I believe him ashamed to be 

seen ? 
Por only once, in the village street, 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his 

face, 
A gra}' old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him a 

cheat ; 
For tlien, perhaps, as a child of deceit. 
She miglit by a true descent be untrue ; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet : 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side ; 
Her mother has been a thing complete, 
However she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faitliful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin : 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only tlie child of her mother, 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race, 
All, all ujion the brother. 



Peace, angry spirit, and let him be ! 
Has not his sister smiled on me ^ 

XIV. 



Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There siie walks in lier state 
And tends upon bed and bower, 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden-gate ; 
A lion ramps at the top. 
He is claspt by a itassion-flower. 



384 



MAUD. 




There she icalLi m hi i state 
And tends upon bed and bower." 



Maud's own little oak-room 
(Which Maud, like a precious stone 
Set in tlie lieart of the earven gloom, 
Lights with herself, when alone 
She sits bj' her music and books 
And her brother lingers late 
With a ro^'stering company) looks 
Upon Jlaud's own garden-gate : 
And I thought as I stood, if a hand, 

as white 
As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 
On the liasp of the window, and mv 

Delight 
Had a sudclen desire, like a glorious 

ghost, to glide, 



Like a beam of the seventh Heaven^ 

down to my side, 
There were but a step to be made. 



The fancy flattcr'd my mind. 

And again seem'd overbold ; 

^'ow I thought that she cared for me, 

Now I thought she was kind 

Only because she was cold. 



I heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Kunningdown to my own dark wood. 



A/ A UD. 



385 



( »r the voice of the long sea-wave as 

it swell'd 
Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; 
But I look'd, and round, all round the 

house I belield 
The death-white curtain drawn ; 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath. 
Knew that the death-white curtain 

meant but sleep, 
Yet I shudder 'd and thought like a 

fool of the sleep of death. 

XV. 

So dark a mind within me dwells. 
And I make myself such evil cheer. 

That if / be dear to some one else, 
Then some one else may have much 
to fear ; 

But if 1 be dear to some one else, 
Then I should be to myself more 
dear. 

Shall I not take care of all that I think, 

Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink. 

If I be dear, 

If I be dear to some one else. 

XVI. 



This lump of earth has left bis estate 
The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 
And so that he find what he went to 

seek, 
And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and 

drown 
His heart in the gross mud-honey of 

town, 
He may stay for a year who has gone 

for a week : 
But this is the day when I must speak, 
And I see my Oread coming down, 
O this is the day ! 

beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way ; 
Think I may hold dominion sweet, 
Lord of the pulse that is lord of her 

breast. 
And dream of her beauty with tender 

dread, 
From the delicate Arab arch of her 

feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as 

the crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head. 
And she knows it not : O, if she knew it. 
To know herbeauty might half undo it. 

1 know it tiie one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from 

crime. 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 



What, if she be fasten'd to this fool 
lord, 



Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 
Should I love her so well if she 
Had given her word to a thing so low ? 
Shall I love her as well if she 
Can break her word were it even for 

me? 
I trust that it is not so. 



Catch not my breath, clamorous 

heart, 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my 

For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 

XVII. 

Go not, happy day. 

From the shining fields. 
Go not, hajjpy day. 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

E0S3- is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose lier mouth 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips. 
Pass and blush the news 

Over glowing sliips ; 
Over blowing seas, 

Over sea sat rest. 
Pass the happy news, 

Blush it thro' the West; 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree. 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blusli from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 

XVIII. 



I have led iier home, my love, my 
only friend. 

There is none like her, none. 

And never yet so warmly ran my 
blood 

And sweetly, on and on 

Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for 
end. 

Full to the banks, close on the prom- 
ised good. 



None like her, none. 
Just now the dry-tongued laurels' 
pattering talk 



586 



MA UD. 



Seem'd her light foot along the 

garden walk. 
And shook my heart to think she 

comes once more ; 
But even then I heard her close the 

door, 
The gates of Heaven are closed, and 

she is gone. 



There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have 

deceased. 
0, art thou sighing for Lebanon 
In the long breeze that streams to thy 

delicious East, 




" Till the red man dance 
By his red cedar-tree." 



Sighing for Lebanon, 

Dark cedar, tlio' thy limbs have here 

increased. 
Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 
And looking to the South, and fed 
Witli honej'd rain and delicate air, 
And haunted by tlie starry head 
Of )ier whose gentle will has changed 

my fate, 
And made my life a jierfumed altar- 
flame ; 
And over whom thy darkness must 

have spread 
With such delight as theirs of old, 

thy great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, 

there 
Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from 

whom she came. 



Here will I lie, while these long 

branches sway, 
And you fair stars that crown a 

happy day 
Go in and out as if at merry play, 
Wlio am no more so all forlorn, 
As when it seem'd far better to be 

born 
To labor and the mattock-harden'd 

hand, 
Than nursed at ease and brought to 

understand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in 3'Our iron 

skies. 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes, 



A/A UD. 



3S7 



Cold fires, yctwitli power to burn and 

brand 
His nothingness into man. 



But now shine on, and what care I, 

Who in this stormy gulf have fount! a 
pearl 

The countercharm of space and hol- 
low sky, 

And do accept my madness, and would 
die 

To save from some slight shame one 
simple girl. 



Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death 

may give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet 

to live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to 

pass ; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the 

grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 



Not die ; but live a life of truest 

breath, 
And teach true life to fight with 

mortal wrongs. 
O, why should Love, like men in 

drinking-songs, 
Spice his fair banquet with the dust 

of death ? 
Make answer, Maud my bliss, 
Maud made my Maud by that long 

loving kiss. 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer 

this ? 
" The dusky strand of Death inwoven 

here 
With dear Love's tie, makes Love 

himself more dear." 



Is that enchanted moan only the 

swell 
Of the long waves that roll in yonder 

bay-? 
And hark the clock within, the silver 

knell 
Of twelve sweet hours that past in 

bridal white, 
And died to live, long as my pulses 

play; 
But now by tliis my love has closed 

her sight 
And given false death her hand, and 

stol'n away 
To dreamful wastes where footless 

fancies dwell 
Among the fragments of the golden 

day. 



May nothing there her maiden grace 

affright ! 
Dear heart, I feel with thee tlie 

drowsy spell. 
My bride to be, my evermore delight. 
My own heart's iieart, my ownest own, 

farewell ; 
It is but for a little space I go ; 
And ye meanwhile far over moor and 

fell 
Beat to the noiseless music of the 

night ! 
Has our whole earth gone nearer to 

the glow 
Of your soft splendors that you look 

so bright ? 
/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely 

Hell. 
Beat, happy stars, timing with things 

below. 
Beat with my heart more blest than 

heart can tell, 
Blest, but for some dark undercurrent 

woe 
That seems to draw — but it shall not 

be so : 
Let all be well, be well. 

XIX. 

1. 

Her brother is coming back to-night. 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 



My dream ? do I dream of bliss '^ 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 

when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark-dawning youth, 
Darken'd watching a mother decline 
And that dead man at her heart and 

mine : 
For who was left to watch her but I ? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 

III. 

1 trust that I did not talk 
To gentle Maud in our walk 
(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless 

things) 
But I trust that I did not talk, 
Not touch on her father's sin : 
I am sure I did but speak 
Of my mother's faded cheek 
When it slowly grew so thin. 
That I felt she was slowly dying 
Vext with lawyers and harass'd with 

debt: 
For how often I caught her with eyes 

all wet, 
Shaking her head at her son and sigh- 
ing 
A world of trouble within ! 



388 



A/A UD. 



And Maud too, Maud was moved 
To speak of the mother she loved 
As one scarce less forlorn. 
Dying abroad and it seems apart 
From him who had ceased to share 

her heart. 
And ever mourning over the feud, 
The household Fury sprinkled with 

blood 
By which our houses are torn : 
How strange was what she said, 
When only Maud and the brother 
Hung over her dying bed — 
That Maud's dark father and mine 
Had bound us one to the other, 
Betrothed us over their wine. 
On the day when Maud was born ; 
Seal'd her mine from her first sweet 

breath. 
Mine, mine bj^ a right, from birth till 

death. 
Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 



But the true blood spilt had in it a 
heat 

To dissolve the precious seal on a 
bond, 

That, if left uncancell'd, had been so 
sweet : 

And none of us thought of a some- 
thing beyond, 

A desire that awoke in the heart of 
the child, 

As it were a duty done to the tomb. 

To be friends for her sake, to be re- 
conciled; 

And I was cursing them and my 
doom, 

And letting a dangerous thought run 
wild 

"While often abroad in the fragrant 
gloom 

Of foreign churches — I see her 
there. 

Bright English lily, breathing a 
prayer 

To be friends to be reconciled ! 



But then what a flint is he ! 
Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
I find whenever she touch'd on me 
This brother had laugh'd her down. 
And at last, when each came home, 
He had darken'd into a frown. 
Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the years be- 
fore ; 
And this was what had redden'd her 

cheek 
When I bow'd to her on the moor. 



Yet Maud, altho' not blind 
To the faults of his heart and mind, 
I see she cannot but love him. 
And says he is rough but kind. 
And wishes me to approve him, 
And tells me, when she lay 
Sick once, with a fear of worse. 
Then he left his wine and horses and 

pi'iy, 

Sat witii her, read to her, night and 

day. 
And tended her like a nurse. 



Kind ? but the deathbed desire 
Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind ? yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this. 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud '\ that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why let it be 

so : 
For shall not Maud have her will ' 



For, Maud, so tender and true, 

As long as my life endures 

I feel I shall owe you a debt, 

That I never can hope to pay; 

And if ever I should forget 

That I owe this debt to you 

And for your sweet sake to yours ; 

O then, what then shall I say ? — 

If ever I should forget. 

May God make me more wretched 

Than ever I have been yet ! 



So now I have sworn to bury 

All this dead body of hate, 

I feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight, 

That I should grow light-headed, I 

fear. 
Fantastically merry ; 
But that her brother comes, like a 

blight 
On my fresh hope, to the Hall to- 



night. 



XX. 



Strange, that I felt so gay. 
Strange, that / tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy ; 
The Sultan, as we name him, — 
She did not wish to blame him — 
But he vext her and perplext her 
With his worldly talk and folly : 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
From a little lazy lover 



MAUD. 



389 



Who but claims her as his due ? 
Or for chilling his caresses 
By the coldness of her manners, 
Nay, the plainness of her dresses ? 
Now I know her but in two. 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather. 
Or the frock and gipsy bonnet 
Be the neater and completer; 



For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud iu either. 



But to-morrow, if we live. 
Our ponderous squire will give 
A grand j)olitical dinner 
To half the squirelings near ; 
And Maud will wear her jewels. 
And the bird of prey will hover, 




" Or the frock and gipsy bonnet, 
Be the neater and completer ; 
For nothinr/ can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either." 



And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 



A grand political dinner 

To the men of many acres, 

A gathering of the Tory, 

A dinner and then a dance 

For the maids and marriage-makers. 

And every eye but mine will glance 

At Maud in all her glory. 



For I am not invited. 

But, with the Sultan's pardon, 

I am all as well delighted. 

For I know her own rose-gardeu. 

And mean to linger in it 

Till the dancing will be over ; 

And then, oh then, come out to me 

For a minute, but for a minute, 



Come out to your own true lover, 
That your true lover may see 
Your glory also, and render 
All homage to his own darling, 
Queen Maud in all her splendor. 

XXI. 
Kivulet crossing my ground, 
And bringing me down from the 

Hall 
This garden-rose that I found, 
Forgetful of Maud and me, 
And lost in trouble and moving round 
Here at the head of a tinkling fall, 
And trying to pass to the sea ; 
Rivulet, born at the Hall, 
My Maud has sent it by thee 
(If I read her sweet will right) 
On a blushing mission to me, 
Saying in odor and color, " Ah, be 
Among the roses to-night." 



390 



MAUD. 



XXII. 



Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted 
abroad, 
And the musk of the rose is blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high. 
Beginning to faint in the light that 
she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky. 
To faint in the light of the sun she 
loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 



All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine 
stirr'd 
To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking 
bird. 
And a hush with the setting moon. 



I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her 
alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone. 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the 
stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 



I said to the rose, "The brief night 
goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are 
those, 
For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to 

the rose, 
" For ever and ever, mine." 



And the soul of the rose went into 
my blood. 
As the music clash'd in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood. 

For I hear<l your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on 
to the wood. 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 



From the meadow your walks have 
left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes. 
To tlie woody hollows in which we 

meet 
And the valle5s of Paradise. 



The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the 
lake 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
But the rose was awake all night for 
your sake. 

Knowing your promise to me; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 



Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 
girls. 
Come hither, the dances are done, 
In gloss of satin and glimmer of 
pearls. 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 
Shine out, little head, sunning over 
with curls. 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she 
is near ; " 

xVnd the white rose weeps, " She is 
late ; " 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ; " 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 



She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust v/ould hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start ^nd tremble under her 
feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 

PART II. 

I. 

1. 

"The fault was mine, the fault was 

mine " — 
Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and 
still. 



MA UD. 



591 



Plucking the liarmless wild-flower on 

the hill ? — 
It is this guilty hand ! — 
And there rises ever a passionate cry 
From underneatli in the darkening 

land — 
What is it, that has been done ? 
dawn of Eden bright over earth 

and sky, 
The fires of Hell brake out of thy 

rising sun, 
The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 
For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken 

a word, 
When her brother ran in his rage to 

the gate, 
He came with the babe-faced lord ; 
Heap'd on her terms of disgrace, 
And while she wept, and I strove to 

be cool. 
He fiercely gave me the lie, 
Till I with as fierce an anger spoke. 
And he struck me, madman, over the 

face, 
Struck me before the languid fool, 
WJio was gaping and grinning by : 
Struck for himself an evil stroke; 
Wrought for liis house an irredeem- 
able woe ; 
For front to front in an hour we stood. 
And a million horrible bellowing 

echoes broke 
From the red-ribb'd hollow behind 

the wood. 
And thunder'd up into Heaven the 

Christless code. 
That must have life for a blow. 
Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to 

grow. 
Was it lie lay there with a fading eye ? 
" The fault was mine," he whisper'd, 

" fly ! " 
Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith of one that I 

know ; 
And there rang on a sudden a pas- 
sionate cry, 
A cry for a brother's blood : 
It will ring in my heart and my ears, 

till I die, till I die. 



Is it gone 1 my pulses beat — 

What was it ? a lying trick of the 

brain 1 
Yet I thought I saw her stand, 
A shadow there at my feet. 
High over the shadowy land. 
It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a 

gentle rain. 
When they should burst and drown 

with deluging storms 
The feeble vassals of wine and anger 

and lust, 
The little hearts that know not liow 

to forgive : 



Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold 

TJicc just, 
Strike dead tlie whole weak race of 

venomous worms. 
That sting each other here in the dust; 
We are not wortliv to live. 



II. 



See what a lovely shell. 
Small and pure as a pearl. 
Lying close to my foot. 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 



What is it ? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can. 
The beauty would be the same. 



The tiny cell is forlorn. 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was imcurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy liorn 
Thro' his dim water-world ? 



Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand. 
Small, but a work divine, 
Frail, but of force to withstand. 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock, 
Here on the Breton strand ! 



Breton, not Briton ; here 

Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 

Of ancient fable and fear — 

Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 

A disease, a hard meciianic ghost 

That never came from on high 

Nor ever arose from below. 

But only moves with the moving eye. 

Flying along the land and the main — 

Why should it look like Maud ? 

Am I to be overawed 

By what I cannot but know 

Is a juggle born of the brain ? 



Back from the Breton coast. 
Sick of a nameless fear, 



392 



MAUD. 



Back to the dark sea-line 
Looking, thinking of all I have lost; 
An old song vexes my ear ; 
But that of Lameeh is mine. 



Por years, a measureless ill, 
For years, for ever, to part — 
But she, she would love me still; 
And as long, God, as she 
Have a grain of love for me. 
So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart, 
However wearj% a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 



Strange, that the mind, when fraught 
With a passion so intense 
One would think that it well 
Might drown all life in the eye, — 
That it should, by being so over- 
wrought. 
Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 
For a shell, or a flower, little things 
Which else would have been past by! 
And now I remember, I, 
When he lay dying there, 
I noticed one of his many rings 
(For he had many, poor worm) and 

thought 
It is his mother's hair. 



Who knows if he be dead ? 

Whether I need have fled 1 

Am I guilty of blood ? 

However this may be, 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things 

good. 
While I am over the sea ! 
Let me and my passionate love go by, 
But speak to her all things holy and 

high, 
Whatever happen to me ! 
Me and my harmful love go by ; 
But come to her waking, find her 

asleep. 
Powers of the height, Powers of the 

deep. 
And comfort her tho' I die. 

III. 

Courage, poor heart of stone ! 

I will not ask thee why 

Thou canst not understand 

That thou art left for ever alone : 

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 

Or if I ask thee why. 

Care not thou to reply : 

She is but dead, and the time is at 

hand 
When thou shalt more than die. 



IV. 

I. 
that 'twere possible 
After long grief and pain 
To find the arms of my true love 
Round me once again ! 



When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 



A shadow fiits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee : 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might 

tell us 
What and where they be. 



It leads me forth at evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me. 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels. 



Half the night I waste in sighs. 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies ; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
For the meeting of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter. 
The delight of low replies. 



'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
'Tis a morning pure and sweet. 
And the light and shadow fleet; 
She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet ; 
She is singing in the meadow 
And the rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 



Do I hear her sing as of old. 
My bird with the shining head. 
My own dove with the tender eye ? 
But there rings on a sudden a pas- 
sionate cry. 



A/A UD. 



393 



There is some one dying ot dead, 
And a sullen thunder is roU'd ; 
For a tumult shakes the city, 
And I wake, my dream is fled ; 
In the shuddering dawn, behold, 
Without knowledge, without pity, 
By the curtains of ray bed 
That abiding pliantom cold. 



Get thee hence, nor come again. 
Mix not memory with doubt. 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about ! 
'Tis the blot upon the brain 
That will show itself without. 




" 'T/s a nnjininij pure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendor fails." 



Then I rise, the eavedrops fall. 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 



Thro' the hubbub of the market 
I steal, a wasted frame, 
It crosses here, it crosses there. 
Thro' all that crowd confused 

loud, 
The shadow still the same ; 
And on my heavy eyelids 
My anguish hangs like shame. 



Alas for her that met me. 
That heard me softly call, 



and 



Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 



Would the happy spirit descend. 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street, 
As she looks among the blest. 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say "Forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, " Take me, sweet, 
To the regions of thy rest " f 



But the broad light glares and beats. 
And the shadow flits and fleets 
And will not let me be ; 
And I loathe the squares and streets, 
And the faces that one meets, 



394 



M.4 CD. 



Hearts with no love for ine : 
Always I Ions'- to creep 
Into some still cavern deep, 
There to weep, and weep, and weep 
My whole soul out to thee. 

V. 

I. 

Dead, long dead, 

Long dead ! 

And my heart is a handful of dust, 

And the wheels go over my head, 

And my bones are shaken with pain, 

For into a shallow grave they are 

thrust, 
Only a yard beneath the street, 
And the hoofs of the horses beat, 

beat, 
The hoofs of the horses beat, 
Beat into my scalp and my brain, 
With never an end to the stream of 

passing feet, 
Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying. 
Clamor and rumble, and ringing and 

clatter, 
And here beneath it is all as bad. 
For I thought the dead had i^eace, but 

it is not so ; 
To have no peace in the grave, is that 

not sad 1 
But lip and down and to and fro. 
Ever about me the dead men go ; 
And then to hear a dead man chatter 
Is enough to drive one mad. 



"Wretchedest age, since Time began. 

They cannot even bury a man ; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the 

days that are gone, 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was 

read ; 
It is that which makes us loud in tlie 

world of the dead ; 
There is none that does his work, not 

one ; 
A touch of their office miglit have 

sufficed, 
But the churchmen fain would kill 

their chin-ch, 
As the churches have kill'd their 

Christ. 

111. 
See, there is one of us sobbing. 
No limit to his distress ; 
And another, a lord of all things, 

praying 
To his own great self, as I guess ; 
And another, a statesman there, be- 

tra^ying 
His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 
And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 
The case of his patient — all for 

what 1 



To tickle the maggot born in an 

empty head, 
And wheedle a world that loves him 

not. 
For it is but a world of the dead. 



Nothing l)ut idiot gabble! 

For the prophecy giA-en of old 

And then not understood. 

Has come to pass as foretold ; 

Not let any man think for the public 

good. 
But babble, merely for babble. 
For I never whisper'd a private affair 
Within the hearing of cat or mouse,. 
No, not to myself in the closet alone, 
But I heard it shouted at once from 

tlie top of the house ; 
Everything came to be known. 
Who told him we were there 1 



Not that gray old wolf, for he came 

not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, 

where he used to lie ; 
He has gather'd tho bones for his 

o'ergrown whelp to crack ; 
Crack them now for yourself, and 

howl, and die. 

VI. 

Propliet, curse me the blabbing lip, 
And curse me the British vermin, the 

rat ; 
I know not whether he came in the 

Hanover ship. 
But I know that he lies and listens 

mute 
In an ancient mansion's crannies and 

holes : 
Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 
Except that now we poison our babes, 

poor souls ! 
It is all used up for that. 

VII. 

Tell him now : she is standing here at 

my head ; 
Not beautiful now, not even kind ; 
He may take lier now ; for she never 

speaks her mind, 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She is not of us, as I divine ; 
She comes from another stiller world 

of the dead, 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 



But I know where a garden grows. 
Fairer than aught in the world be- 
side. 
All made up of the lily and rose 



J/A CD. 



395 



That blow by night, when the season 
is good, 

To the sound of dancing music and 
flutes : 

It is only flowers, they had no fruits, 

And I almost fear they are not roses, 
but blood ; 

For the keeper was one, so full of 
pride, 

He linkt a dead man there to a spec- 
tral bride ; 

For he, if he had not been a Sultan of 
brutes, 

"Would he have that hole in his side ? 



But what will the old man say 1 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a friend of mine one stormy 

day ; 
Yet now I could even weep to think 

of it; 
For what will the old man say 
When he comes to the second corpse 

in the pit 1 



Friend, to be struck by the public 

foe. 
Then to strike him and lay him low. 
That were a public merit, far, , 

Whatever the Quaker holds, from 

sin ; 
But the red life spilt for a private 

blow — 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 



me, why have they not buried me 

deep enough ? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so 

rough, 
JNIe, that was never a quiet sleeper ? 
Maybe still I am but half -dead ; 
Then I cannot be whollj^ dumb ; 

1 will cry to the steps above my head 
And somebody, surely, some kind 

heart will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 



PART III. 
VI. 

I. 

My life has crept so long on a broken wing 

Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear. 

That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing : 

My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year 

When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, 

And the shining dalfodil dies, and the Charioteer 

And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns 

Over Orion's grave low down in the west, 

That like a silent lightning under the stars 

She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the blest, 

And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars — 

" And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, 

Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed to Mars 

As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's breast. 



And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear delight 

To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so fair, 

That had been in a weary world my one thing bright ; 

And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my despair 

When I thought that a war would arise in defence of the right, 

That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease. 

The glor}' of manhood stand on his ancient height. 

Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionaire : 

No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace 

Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note. 

And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase. 

Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore, 

And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat 

Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. 



And as months ran on and rumor of battle grew, 
" It is time, it is time, passionate heart," said I 



396 MA UD. 

(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and true), 

" It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye. 

That old hysterical mock-disease should die." 

And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath 

With a loyal people shouting a battle cry, 

Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly 

Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death. 



Let it go or stay, so I wake to the liigher aims 

Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold, 

And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames, 

Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to bo told ; 

And hail once more to the banner of battle unroU'd ! 

Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep 

For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring claims. 

Yet God's just wrath shall be wrcak'd on a giant liar ; 

And many a darkness into the light shall leap, 

And shine in the sudden making of splendid names, 

And noble thought be freer under tlie sun, 

And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; 

For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and done, 

And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep. 

And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flames 

The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. 



Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind, 
We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble still, 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better mind; 
It is better to fight for the good than to rail at the ill ; 
I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign'd. 



e:^ooh aedeint 

AND OTHER POEMS. 
^;«>ioo 



ENOCH ARDEN. 

Long lines of cliff breaking have left 
a chasm ; 

And in the chasm are foam and yel- 
low sands; 

Beyond, red roofs about a narrow 
wharf 

In cluster ; then a moulder'd church ; 
and higher 

A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd 
mill ; 

And high in heaven behind it a gray 
down 

With Danish barrows; and a hazel- 
wood, 

By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 

Green in a cuplike hollow of the 
down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years 
ago, 

Three children of three houses, Annie 
Lee, 

The prettiest little damsel in the port, 

And Philip Ray the miller's only son, 

And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 

Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, 
play'd 

Among the waste and lumber of the 
shore, 

Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fish- 
ing-nets, 

Anchors of rusty-fluke, and boats u\> 
drawn ; 

And built their castles of dissolving 
sand 

To watch them overflow'd, or follow- 
ing up 

And flying the white breaker, daily 
left 

The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the 

cliff: 
In this the children play'd at keeping 

house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the 

next, 



While Annie still was mistress ; but 

at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a 

week : 
" This is my house and this my little 

wife." 
" Mine too " said Philip " turn and 

turn about " : 
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch 

stronger-made 
Was master : then would Philip, his 

blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of 

tears, 
Shriek out " I hate you, Enoch," and 

at this 
The little wife would weep for com- 
pany. 
And pray them not to quarrel for her 

sake. 
And say she would be little wife to 

both. 

But when the dawn of rosy child- 
hood past, 

And the new warmth of life's ascend- 
ing sun 

Was felt by either, either fixt his 
heart 

On that one girl ; and Enoch spoke 
his love. 

But Philip loved in silence ; and the 
girl 

Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to 
him ; 

But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew 
it not. 

And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch 
set 

A purpose evermore before his 
eyes. 

To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 

To purchase his own boat, and make 
a home 

For Annie : and so prosper'd that at 
last 

A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 

A carefuUer in peril, did not breathe 

For leagues along that breaker-beaten 
coast 



39S 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Than Enoch. Likewise had he served 
a year 

On board a merchantman, and made 
himself 

Full sailor; and he thrice had i)luck'd 
a life 

From the dread sweep of the down- 
streaming seas : 

And all men look'd upon him favora- 
bly : 

And ere he touch'd his one-and- 
twentieth May, 

He purchased his own boat, and made 
a home 

For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway 
up 

The narrow street that clamber'd 
toward the mill. 

Then, on a goklen autumn even- 
tide. 

The younger people making holiday, 

With bag and sack and basket, great 
and small, 

Went nutting to the hazels. Philip 
stay'd 

(His father lying sick and needing 
him ) 

An hour behind; but as he climb'd 
the hill, 

Just where the prone edge of the 
wood began 

To feather toward the hollow, saw the 
pair, 

Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in- 
hand. 

His large gray eyes and weather- 
beaten face 

All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, 

That burn'd as on an altar. Philip 
look'd, 

And in their eyes and faces read his 
doom ; 

Then, as their faces drew together, 
groan'd, 

And slipt aside, and like a wounded 
life 

Crept down into the hollows of the 
wood; 

There, while the rest were loud in 
merrymaking, 

Had his dark hour unseen, and rose 
and past 

Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily 

rang the bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven 

happy years. 
Seven happy years of health and 

competence. 
And mutual love and honorable toil; 
With children ; first a daughter. In 

him woke. 
With his first babe's first cry, the 

noble wish 



To save all earnings to the uttermost, 
And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers; a wish 

renew'd, 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes. 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful 

seas. 
Or often journeying landward; for in 

truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's 

ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden'd with a thousand win- 
ter gales. 
Not only to the market-cross were 

known, 
But in the " leafy lanes behind the 

down. 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp. 
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely 

Hail, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's min- 
istering. 

Then came a change, as all things 

human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow 

port 
Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or 

sea; 
And once when there, and clambering 

on a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and 

fell . 
A limb was broken when they lifted 

him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, 

his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his 

trade 
Taking her bread and theirs : and on 

him fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing 

man. 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and 

gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the 

night. 
To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 
And her, he loved, a beggar : then he 

pray'd 
" Save them from this, whatever 

comes to me." 
And while he pray'd, the master of 

that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mis- 
chance, 
Came, for he knew the man and 

valued him. 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would 

he go ' 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



399 



There yet were many weeks before she 

sail'd, 
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch 

have the place "? 
And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Kejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance 
appear'd 



No graver than as when some little 

cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing : yet the 

wife — 
When he was gone — the children — 

what to do ? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his 

plans ; 




" Forivard she started with a happi/ cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms' 



To sell the boat — and yet he loved 

her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weath- 

er'd in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his 

horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what 

she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie f (jrth 

in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their 

wives — 
So might she keep the house while he 

was gone. 



Sliould he not trade himself out yon- 
der ? go 
This voyage more than once? yea twice 

or tlirice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones edu- 
cated, 
And pass his days in peace among his 
own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined 
all: 



400 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Then moving homeward came on Annie 

pale, 
Nursing the siclvly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms; ; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his 

limbs, 
Apjiraised his weight and fondled 

fatherlike, 
But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he 

spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring 

had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his 

will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she. 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day by night re- 

new'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of 

it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her. 
Her and her children, let her plead in 

vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it 

thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea- 
friend. 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and 

set his hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting- 
room 
With shelf and corner for tlie goods 

and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at 

home. 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer 

and axe, 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to 

hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd 

and rang. 
Till this was ended, and his careful 

hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having or- 

der'd all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature 

packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; 

and he, 
AVho needs would work for Annie to 

the last. 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of 

farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's 

fears, 
Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter 

to him. 



Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mys- 
tery 
Where God-in-man is one with man- 

in-God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and 

babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he 

said 
" Annie, this voyage by the grace of 

God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for 

me. 
For I'll be back, my girl, before you 

know it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle 

" and he. 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for 

it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my 

knees 
And I will tell him talcs of foreign 

parts. 
And make him merry, when I come 

home again. 
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I 

go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she 
hoard, 

And almost hoped herself ; but when 
he turn'd 

The current of his talk to graver things 

In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 

On providence and trust in Heaven, 
she heard, 

Heard and not heard him ; as the vil- 
lage girl. 

Who sets her pitcher underneath the 
spring. 

Musing on him that used to fill it for 
her, 

Hears and not hears, and lets it over- 
flow. 

At length she spoke " Enoch, you 

are wise ; 
And yet for all your wisdom well 

know I 
Tliat I shall look upon your face no 

)nore." 

" Well then," said Enoch, " I shall 
look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day) get you a seaman's 

glass. 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your 
fears." 

But when the last of those last mo- 
ments came, 
" Annie, my girl, cheer up, be com- 
forted. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



401 



Look to the babes, and till I come 

again 
Keep everything shii^shape, for I must 

go. 
And fear no more for me ; or if you 

fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that an- 
chor holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning "? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His : He made it." 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his droop- 
ing wife, 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little 

ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who 

slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him 

Enoch said 
" Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how 

should the child 
Kemember this ? " and kiss'd him in 

his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead 

dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 
Thro' all his future ; but now hastily 

caught 
His .bundle, waved his hand, and went 

his way. 

She, when the day that Enoch 
mention'd, came, 

Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain r 
l^erhaps 

She could not fix the glass to suit her 
eye; 

Perhaps her eye was dim, hand trem- 
ulous ; 

She saw him not . and while he stood 
on deck 

Waving, the moment and the vessel 
past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing 

sail 
She watch'd it, and departed weeping 

for him ; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as 

his grave. 
Set her sad will no less to chime with 

his. 
But throve not in her trade, not being 

bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies. 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 
And still foreboding "what would 

Enoch say ? " 
For more than once, in days of diffi- 
culty 



And pressure, had she sold her wares 
for less 

Than what she gave in buying what 
she sold : 

She f ail'd and sadden'd knowing it ; 
and thus. 

Expectant of that news which never 
came, 

Gain'd for her own a scanty suste- 
nance, 

And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born 

and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for 

it 
With all a mother's care : neverthe- 
less, 
Whether her business often call'd her 

from it. 
Or thro' the want of what it needed 

most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best 

could tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it 

was, 
After a lingering, — ere she was 

aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly. 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie 

buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for 

her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd 

upon her). 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so 

long. 
" Surely," said Philip, " I may see her 

now. 
May be some little comfort " ; there- 
fore went, 
Past thro' the solitary room in front. 
Paused for a moment at an inner door. 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one 

opening, 
Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her 

grief. 
Fresh from the burial of her little one. 
Cared not to look on any human face. 
But turn'd her own toward the wall 

and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falter- 

ingly 
" Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." 

He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd 

reply 
" Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! " half abash'd him ; yet 

unask'd. 
His bashf ulness and tenderness at war. 
He set himself beside her, saying to 

her: 



402 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



" I came to speak to you of what he 

wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever 

said 
You chose the best among us — a 

strong man : 
Eor where he fixt liis heart he set his 

hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it 

thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary 

way, 
And leave you lonely 1 not to see the 

world — 
Eor pleasure ? — nay, but for the 

wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that was 

his wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours 

wore lost. 
And it would vex him even in liis 

grave. 
If he could know his babes were run- 
ning wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, 

now — 
Have we not known each other all our 

lives ? 
I do beseech you by the love you 

bear 
Him and his children not to say me 

nay — 
Eor, if you will, when Enoch comes 

again 
Why then he shall repay me — if you 

will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to 

scliool : 
This is tlie favor that I came to ask." 

Then Annie with her brows against 

the wall 
Answer'd " I cannot look you in the 

face ; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 
When you came in my sorrow broke 

me down; 
And now I tliink your kindness breaks 

me down ; 
But Enocli lives ; that is borne in on 

me : 
He will repay you : money can be 

repaid ; 
Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 
" Then you will let me, Annie ? " 

There she turn'd, 
She rose, and frxt her swimming eyes 

upon him, 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly 

face, 



Then calling down a blessing on his 

head 
Caught at his hand, and wrung it pas- 

sionatelj', 
And past into the little garth beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to 

school. 
And bought them needful books, and 

everyway. 
Like one who does his duty by his own, 
Made himself theirs ; and tho' for 

Annie's sake, 
Eearing the lazy gossip of the port, 
He oft denied his heart his dearest 

wish. 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet 

he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs 

and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall. 
Or conies from the down, and now and 

then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the 

meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
Erom liis tall mill that whistled on the 

waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's 

mind : 
Scarce could the woman when he came 

upon her. 
Out of full heart and boundless grati- 
tude 
Light on a broken word to thank him 

with. 
But Pliilip was her children's all-in- 
all; 
Erom distant corners of the street they 

ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were 

they ; 
Worried his passive ear with petty 

wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd 

witli him 
And call'd liim Eather Philip. Philip 

gain'd 
As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to 

them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream, 
Eaint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue. 
Going we know not wliere : and so ten 

years. 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native 

land, 
Eled forward, and no news of Enoch 

came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's chil- 
dren long'd 
To go with others, nutting to the wood, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



403 



And Annie would go with them ; then 

they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) 

too : 
Him, like the working bee in blossom- 
dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, they found; 

and saying to him 
" Come with us Father Philip " he 

denied ; 
But when the children pluck'd at him 

to go. 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to 

their wish, 
For was not Annie with them ? and 

they went. 



But after scaling half the weary 

down. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood 

began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her 

force 
Fail'd her ; and sighing, " Let me rest " 

she said : 
So Pliilip rested with her well-content ; 
While all the younger ones with jubi- 
lant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumul- 

tuously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made 

a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and 

bent or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear 

away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each 

other 
And calling, here and there, about the 

wood. 



But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one 

dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded 

life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he 

said. 
Lifting his honest forehead, " Listen, 

Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in 

the wood. 
Tired, Annie ? " for she did not speak 

a word. 
" Tired ? " but lier face had fall'n upon 

her hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in 

him, 
" The ship was lost," he said, " the 

ship was lost ! 
No more of that ! why should you kill 

yourself 
And make them orphans quite'? " And 

Annie said 



"I thought not of it: but — I know 

not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer 

spoke. 
" Annie, there is a thing upon my 

mind. 
And it has been upon my mind so long. 
That tho' I know not when it first 

came there, 
I know that it will out at last. O 

Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all 

chance, 
That he wlio left you ten long years 

ago 
Should still be living ; well then — 

let me sj^eak : 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting 

help : 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so 

quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have 

you know — 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would 

l^rove 
A fatlier to your children : I do 

think 
They love me as a father : I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine 

own ; 
And I believe, if you were fast my 

wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain 

years. 
We might be still as happy as God 

grants 
To any of his creatures. Think upon 

it: 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burthen, save my care for you and 

yours : 
And we have known each other all our 

lives. 
And I have loved you longer than you 

know." 



Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she 

spoke : 
" You have been as God's good angel 

in our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you 

for it, 
Philip, with something happier than 

myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever 

loved 
As Enoch was ? what is it that you 

ask ? " 
" I am content " he answer'd " to be 

loved 
A little after Enoch." " " she 

cried, 



404 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait 

a while : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not 

come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long : 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 
( ) wait a little ! " Philip sadly said 
" Annie, as I have waited all my life 
I well may wait a little." " Nay " she 

cried 
" I am bound : you have my promise 

— in a year : 
Will you not bide your year as I bide 

mine "? " 
And Philip answer'd " I will bide my 

year." 

Here both were mute, till Philip 

glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen 

day 
Pass from the Danish barrow over- 
head ; 
Then fearing night and chill for 

Annie, rose 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' 

the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their 

spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and 

there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave 

his hand, 
Saying gently "Annie, when I spoke 

to you. 
That was yoiu- hour of weakness. I 

was wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you 

are free." 
Then Annie weei^jng answer'd " I am 

bound." 

She spoke ; and in one moment as 

it were. 
While yet she went about her house- 
hold ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest 

words. 
That he had loved her longer than she 

knew. 
That autumn into autumn flash'd 

again. 
And there he stood once more before 

her face, 
Claiming her promise. "Is it a year?" 

she ask'd. 
" Yes, if the nuts " he said " be ripe 

again : 
Come out and see." But she — she 

l)ut him otf — 
So much to look to — such a change 

— a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that 

she was bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip 

with his eyes 



Full of that lifelong hunger, and his 

voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
"Take your own time, Annie, take 

your own time." 
And Annie could have wept for pity 

of him ; 
And yet she held him on delajdngly 
With many a scarce-believable e.xcuse, 
Trying his truth and his long-suffer- 
ance, 
Till half-another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port. 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but 

trifle with her ; 
Some that she but held oif to draw 

him on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip 

too. 
As simple folk that knew not their 

own minds. 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpenteggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her 

own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his 

wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon 

her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting 

grew 
Careworn and wan ; and all these 

things fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but ear- 
nestly 
Pray'd for a sign "my Enoch is he 

gone ? " 
Then compass'd round by the blind 

wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of 

her heart, 
Stai'ted from bed, and struck herself 

a light. 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
" Under the palm-tree." That was 

nothing to her : 
No meaning there : she closed the 

Book and slept : 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a 

height. 
Under a palm-tree, over him the 

Sun: 
" He is gone," she thought, " he is 

happy, he is singing 
Hosanna in the higliest : yonder shines 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



405 



The Sun of Righteousness, and these 

be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing 

cried 
' Hosanna in the highest ! ' " Here 

she woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly 

to him 
" There is no reason why we should 

not wed." 
" Then for God's sake," he answer'd, 

" both our sakes. 
So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang 

the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were 

wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her 

path, 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on 

her ear, 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to 

be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out 

alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she 

enter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the 

latch, 
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he 

knew: 
Such doubts and fears were common 

to her state. 
Being with child : but when her child 

was born. 
Then her new child was as herself 

renew'd, 
Then the new mother came about her 

heart. 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all. 
And that mysterious instinct wholly 

died. 

And where was Enoch ? prosper- 
ously sail'd 

The ship " Good Fortune," tho' at 
setting forth 

The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, 
shook 

And almost overwhelm'd her, yet 
unvext 

She slipt across the summer of the 
world, 

Then after a long tumble about the 
Cape 

And frequent interchange of foul and 
fair, 

She passing thro' the summer world 
again. 

The breath of heaven came continu- 
ally 

And sent her sweetly by the golden 
isles. 

Till silent in her oriental haven. 



There Enoch traded for himself, 

and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of 

those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage : at 
first indeed 

Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by 
day. 

Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure- 
head 

Stared o'er the ripple feathering from 
her bows : 

Then follow'd calms, and then winds 
variable, 

Then baffling, a long course of them ; 
and last 

Storm, such as drove her under moon- 
less heavens 

Till hard upon the cry of " breakers " 
came 

The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 

But Enoch and two others. Half the 
night, 

Buoy'd upon floating tackle and 
broken spars. 

These drifted, stranding on an isle at 
morn 

Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human suste- 
nance. 

Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nour- 
ishing roots ; 

Nor save for pity was it hard to take 

The helpless life so wild that it was 
tame. 

There in a seaward-gazing mountain- 
gorge 

They built, and thatch'd with leaves 
of palm, a hut, 

Half hut, half native cavern. So the 
three. 

Set in this Eden of all plenteousness. 

Dwelt with eternal summer, ill- 
content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more 

than boy. 
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and 

wreck. 
Lay lingering out a five-years' death- 
in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he 

was gone, 
The two remaining found a fallen 

stem ; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of 

himself. 
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, 

fell 
Sun-stricken, and that other lived 

alone. 
In those two deaths he read God's 

warning " wait." 



406 



EXOCH ARDEX. 



The mountain wooded to the peak, 

the hvwns 
And whiding ghides high up like ways 

to Heaven, 
The slender coco's drooping crown of 

plumes. 
The lightning flash of insect and of 

bird. 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coiFd around the stately stems, 

and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the 

world, 
All these he saw ; but what he fain 

had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human 

face, 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean- 
fowl. 
The league-long roller thundering on 

the reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees 

that branch'd 
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the 

sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the 

wave. 
As down the shore he ranged, or all 

day long * 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a 

sail : 
Xo sail from day to daj^, but every 

day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and 

precipices ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the east ; 
The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
Tlie blaze upon the waters to the west ; 
Then the great stars that globed 

themselves in Heaven, 
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and 

again 
The scarlet shafts of simrise — but no 

sail. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd 

to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him 

paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms 

moved 
Before him haunting him, or he him- 
self 
Moved haunting people, things and 

places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the 

small house. 
The climbing street, the mill, the 

leafy lanes. 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely 

Hall, 



The horse he drove, the boat he sold, 

the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming 

downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of d3-ing 

leaves. 
And the low moan of leaden-color'd 

seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his 

ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far 

away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish 

bells; 
Then, tho' he kncAv not wherefore, 

started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous 

hateful isle 
Return'd upon him, had not his poor 

heart 
Spoken with That, which being every- 
where 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem 

all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering 

head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came 

ami went 
Year after year. His hopes to see 

his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar 

fields. 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely 

doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another 

ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling 

winds, * 

Like the Good Fortune, from her 

destined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where 

she lay: 
For since the mate had seen at early 

dawn 
Across a break on the mist-\vreathen 

isle 
The silent water slipping from the 

hills. 
They sent a crew that landing burst 

away 
In search of stream or fount, and 

fill'd the shores 
With clamor. Downward from his 

mountain gorge 
Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded 

solitary. 
Brown, looking hardly human, 

strangely clad, 
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it 

seem'd, 
With inarticulate rage, and making 

signs 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



407 



They knew not what : and yet he led 

the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water 

ran ; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talking, his long- 

bounden tongue 
Was loosen'd, till he made them 

understand ; 
"Whom, when their casks were fiU'd 

they took aboard : 
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, 
Scarce-credited at first but more and 

more, 
Amazed and melted all who listen'd 

to it: 
And clothes they gave him and free 

passage home ; 
But oft he work'd among the rest and 

shook 
His isolation from him. None of 

these 
Came from his country, or could an- 
swer him. 
If questional, aught of what he cared 

to know. 
And dull the voyage was with long 

delays, 
The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but 

evermore 
His fancy fled before the lazy Avind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded 

moon 
He like a lover down thro' all his 

blood 
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning- 
breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly 

wall : 
And that same morning officers and 

men 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him 

it: 
Then moving up the coast they landed 

him, 
Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd 

before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any 

one. 
But homeward — home — what home"? 

had he a home ? 
His home, he walk'd. Bright was that 

afternoon. 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either 

chasm. 
Where either haven open'd on the 

deeps, 
EoU'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the 

world in gray ; 
Cut off the length of highway on be- 
fore, 
And left but narrow breadth to left 

and right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 



On the nigh-naked tree the robin 

piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping 

haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore 

it down : 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the 

gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted 

light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the 

place. 

Then down the long street having 

slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity. 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd 

the home 
Whei^ Annie lived and loved him, and 

his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were 

born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur 

there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) 

credit 
Still downward thinking " dead or 

dead to me ! " 



Down to the pool and narrow wharf 

he went. 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity. 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, 
Ife thought it must have gone ; but he 

was gone 
Who kept it ; and his widow Miriam 

Lane, 
AVith daily-dwindling profits held the 

house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but 

now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering 

men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and 

garrulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in. 
Told him, with other annals of the 

port, 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, 

so bow'd. 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty. 
How Philip put her little ones to 

school, 
And kept them in it, his long wooing 

her, 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and 

the birth 
Of Philip's child : and o'er his coun- 
tenance 
No shadow past, nor motion : any one. 



408 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Regarding, well had deem'd he felt 

the tale 
Less than the teller: only when she 

closed 
"Enoch, poor man, was cast away and 

lost " 
He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 
Repeated muttering " cast away and 

lost"; 
Again in deeper inward whispers 

" lost ! " 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face 

again ; 
"If I might look on her sweet face 

again 
And know that she is happy." So the 

thought 
Haunted and harass'd Mm, and <lrovc 

him forth, 
At evening when the dull November 

day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the 

hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll 

upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Ear-blazing from the rear of Philip's 

house. 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze al- 
lures 
The bird of passage, till he madly 

strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weafy 

life. 

Eor Philip's dwelling fronted on the 

street. 
The latest house to landward; but be- 
hind, 
"With one small gate that open'd on 

the waste, 
Elourish'd a little garden square and 

wall'd : 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk 

and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yQ\i ; and 

thence 
That which he better might have 

shunn'd, if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch 



Eor cups and silver on the burnish'd 

board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the 

hearth : . 
And on the riglit hand of the hearth 

he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 



Stout, rosy, with his babe across his 

knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a 

girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-liair'd and tall, and from her 

lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his 

creasy arms. 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they 

laugh'd ; 
And on the left hand of the hearth he 

saw 
The mother glancing often toward her 

babe. 
But turning now and then to speak 

with him. 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and 

strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, 

for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life 

beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the 

babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's 

knee, 
And all the warmth, the peace, the 

happiness. 
And his own children tall and beauti- 
ful, 
And him, that otlier, reigning in his 

place. 
Lord of his rights and of Ms children's 

love, — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told 

him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than 

things lieard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the 

branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible 

cry. 
Which in one moment, like the blast 

of doom. 
Would shatter all the happiness of the 

hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a 
thief. 

Lest the harsh shingle should grate 
underfoot, 

And feeling all along the garden-wall. 

Lest he should swoon and tumble and 
be found, 

Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and 
closed. 

As lightly as a sick man's chamber- 
door. 

Behind him, and came out upon the 
waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but 
that his knees 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



409 



Were feeble, so that falling prone lie 

dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and 

pray'd. 

"Too hard to bear! why did they 
take me thence ? 

God Almighty, blessed Saviour, 

Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely 

isle. 
Uphold me. Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer ! aid me, give me 

strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her 

peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to 

these ■? 
They know me not. I should betray 

myself. 
Never : No father's kiss for me — the 

girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my 

son." 

, There speech and thought and na- 
ture fail'd a little. 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose 

and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again. 
All down the long and narrow street 

Jie went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain. 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
" Not to tell her, never to let her 
know." 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evei'- 

more 
Prayer from a living source within the 

will. 
And beating up thro' all the bitter 

world. 
Like fountains of sweet water in the 

sea. 
Kept him a living soul. "This mil- 
ler's wife " 
He said to Miriam " that you spoke 

about. 
Has she no fear that her first husband 

lives ■? " 
" Ay, ay, poor soul " said Miriam, 

" fear enow ! 
If you could tell her you had seen him 

dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort ; " 

and he tliought 
" After the Lord has call'd me she 

shall know, 

1 wait His time," and Enoch set him- 

self, 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby 
to live. 



Almost to all things could he turn his 

hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and 

wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or 

heli)'d 
At lading and unlading the tall barks, 
That brought tlie stinted commerce 

of those days ; 
Thus eai-n'd a scanty living for him- 
self : 
Yet since he did but labor for himself, 
Work without hope, there was not life 

in it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as 

the year 
Roll'd itself round again to meet the 

day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor 

came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do 

no more. 
But kept the house, his chair, and last 

his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheer- 
fully. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded 

wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting 

squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life 

api^roach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he 

saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close 

of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a 

kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking "after I am 

gone. 
Then may she learn I lov'd her to the 

last." 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and 

said 
" Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the 

book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 
'• Dead," clamor'd the good woman, 

" hear him talk ! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring 

you round." 
" Swear" added Enoch sternly " on 

the book." 
And on the book, half -frighted, Miriam 

swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon 

her, 
" Did you know Enoch Arden of this 

town ? " 
" Know him ■? " she said " I knew him 

far away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the 

street; 



410 



ENOCH ARDEX. 



Held his head high, and cared for no 

man, he." 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd 

her ; 
" His head is low, and no man cares 

for him. 
I think I have not three days more to 

live ; 
I am the man." At which the woman 

gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical 

cry. 
" You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was 

a foot 
Higher than you be." Enoch said 

again 
" My God has bow'd me down to what 

I am ; 
My grief and solitude have broken 

me ; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has 

twice been changed — 
I married her who married Philip 

Kay. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his 

voyage. 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming 

back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
And how he kept it. As the woman 

heard. 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy 

tears, 
"While in her heart she yearn'd inces- 
santly 
To rush abroad all round the little 

haven. 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his 

woes ; 
But awed and promise-bounden she 

forbore, 
Saying only " See your bairns before 

you go ! 
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and 

arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch 

hung 
A moment on her words, but then 

replied: 

" Woman, disturb me not now at the 

last. 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again; mark me and under- 
stand, 
While I have power to speak. I 

charge you now, 
When you shall see her, tell her that 

I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving 

her; 
Save for the bar between us, loving 

her 
As when she laid her head beside my 

own. 



And tell my daughtep Annie, whom I 
saw 

So like her mother, that my latest 
breath 

Was spent in blessing her and pray- 
ing for her. 

And tell my son that I died blessing 
him. 

And say to Philip that I blest him 
too; 

He never meant us any thing but good. 

But if my children care to see me 
dead, 

Who hardly knew me living, let them 
come, 

I am their father ; but she must not 
come. 

For my dead face would vex her after- 
life. 

And now there is but one of all my 
blood 

Who will embrace me in the world-to- 
be : 

This hair is his : she cut it off and 
gave it. 

And I have borne it with me all these 
years. 

And thought to bear it with me to my 
grave ; 

But now my mind is changed, for I 
shall see him. 

My babe in bliss: wherefore when I 
am gone, 

Take, give her this, for it may (fomf ort 
her: 

It will moreover be a token to her, 

That I am he." 



He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 

Made such a voluble answer promis- 
ing all. 

That once again he roll'd his eyes up- 
on her 

Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 

She i^romised. 

Then the third night after this. 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless 

and pale. 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at 

intervals. 
There came so loud a callingof the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms 

abroad 
Crying with a loud voice "A sail! a 

sail ! 
I am saved ; " and so fell back and 

spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. ^' 
And when they buried him the little 

port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



411 



IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. 

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII. 



Stronc; Son of God, immortal Love, 
Wliom we, that have not seen thy 

face, 
V>\ faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove; 

Thine are these orbs of liglit and 
shade ; 
Thou madest Life in man and 

brute ; 
Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy 
foot 
Is on the skull which thou liast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in tlic dust : 
Thou madest man, he knows not 

why, 
He thinks he was not made to die; 
And thou hast made him: thou art 
just. 

Thou seemest human and divine. 

The highest, holiest manhood, 

thou: 
Our wills are ours, we know not 
how ; 
Our wills are ours, to make them 
thine. 

Our little s_vstems liave their day ; 
They have their day and cease 

to be: 
They are but broken lights of 
thee. 
And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith : we cannot know ; 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from 
thee, 
A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to 
more, 
But more of reverence in us 

dwell ; 
That mind and soul, according 
well. 
May make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight; 

We mock thee when we do not 
fear : 

But help thy foolish ones to bear; 
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd mj' sin in me ; 
What seem'd luy worth since I 
began ; 



For merit lives from man to man. 
And not from man, Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so 

fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive tliese wild and wandering 
cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in 
truth. 
And in thy wisdom make me wise. 

1849. 



I HELD it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones. 
That men may rise on stepping- 
stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 
And find in loss a gain to match 1 
Or reach a hand thro' time to 
catch 

The far-off interest of tears ? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be 
drown'd. 
Let darkness keep her raven 

gloss : 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss. 
To dance with death, to beat the 
ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should 
scorn 
The long result of love, and 

boast, 
"Behold the man that loved and 
lost. 
But all he was is overworn." 



Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the under-lying dead, 
Thj' fibres net the dreamless head. 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again. 
And bring the firstling to the 

flock ; 
And in the dusk of thee, the 
clock 
Beats out the little lives of men. 



412 



IN MEMORIAM. 



O not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Wlio changest not in any gale. 
Nor brantlmg summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of 
gloom : 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree, 

Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into tliee. 



O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, 

Priestess in the vaults of Death, 
O sweet and bitter in a breath. 

What whispers from thy lying lip "? 

" The stars," she whispers, " blindly 
run; 
A web is wov'n across the sky ; 
From out waste places comes a 
cry. 
And murmurs from the dying sun : 

" And all the phantom. Nature, 
stands — 
Witli all the music in her tone, 
A liollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands." 

And sliall I take a thing so blind, 

Embrace lier as my natural good ; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood. 

Upon the threshold of the mind 1 



To Sleep I give my powers away ; 

My Willis bondsman to the dark; 

I sit within a helmless bark, 
And with ray heart I muse and say : 

O heart, how fares it with thee now. 
That thou should'st fail from thy 

desire. 
Who scarcely darest to inquire, 

" What is it makes me beat so low ? " 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 
Some pleasure from thine early 

years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling 
tears, 
That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken'd 

eyes; 
With morning wakes the will, and 
cries, 
"Thou shalt not be the fool of loss." 



I sometimes hold it half a sin 

To put in words the grief I feel ; 



For words, like Nature, half re- 
veal 
And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A us;e in measured language lies ; 
The sad mechanic exercise. 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, 
Like coarsest clothes against the 

cold : 
But that large grief which these 
enfold 
Is given in outline and no more. 

VI. 

One writes, that " Other friends re- 
main," 
That " Loss is common to the 

race" — 
And common is the commonplace, 
And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, ratlier more : 
Too common ! Never morning 
wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

father, wheresoe'er thou be, 

Who pledgestnowthy,>gallant son; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be 
done. 

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 

mother, praying God will save 

Tliy sailor, — while thy head is 

bow'd 
His heavy-shotted hammock- 
shroud 
Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him 

well; 
Who mused on all I had to tell, 
And something written, something 
thought ; 

E.xpecting still his advent home ; 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, " here to- 
day," 

Or " here to-morrow will he come." 

O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove. 
That sittest ranging golden liair ; 
And glad to find thyself so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 
In expectation of a guest ; 
And thinking " this will please 
him best," 

She takes a riband or a rose ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



413 



For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color 

burns ; 
And, having left the glass, she 
turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right; 

And, even when she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future Lord 



Was drown'd in passing thro' the 
ford, 
Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

O what to her shall be the end ? 

And what to me remains of 
good ? 

To her, perpetual maidenhood, 
And unto me no second friend. 




"Fair ship, that from the Italian more 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains." 



Dark house, by which once more I 
stand 
Here in the long unlovely street, 
Doors, where my heart was used 
to beat 
So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasp'd no more — 
Behold me, for I cannot sleep. 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 



He is not here ; but far away 

The noise of life begins again. 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling 
rain 
On the bald street breaks the blank 
day. 



A happy lover who has come 

To look on her that loves him well, 
Who 'lights and rings the gate- 
way bell. 
And learns her gone and far from 
home ; 

He saddens, all the magic light 

Dies off at once from bower and 

hall. 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of delight : 

So find I every pleasant spot 

In which we two were wont to 

meet, 
The field, the chamber and the 
street, 
For all is dark where thou art not. 



414 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may lind 
A flower beat with rain and wind, 

Which once she f oster'd up with care ; 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

mj' forsaken licart, with thee 
And tliis poor flower of poesy 

Which little cared for fades not yet. 

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to plant it on liis tomb, 
That if it can it there may bloom. 

Or dying, there at least may die. 



Fair ship, that from tiie Italian sliore 
Sailest the placid o<;ean-plains 
With m}^ lost Arthur's loved re- 
mains, 
Spread thy full wings, and waft him 
o'er. 

So draw him home to tliose that mourn 
In vain ; a favorable speed 
Kuffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, 

bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above ; 
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the 

prow ; 
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps 
now. 
My friend, the brother of my love ; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run; 
Dear as the mother to the son. 

More than my brothers are to me. 



I hear the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night : 
I see the cabin-window bright ; 

I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife, 
And travell'd men from foreign 

lands ; 
And letters unto trembling hands ; 

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. 

So bring him : we have idle dreams : 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies : O to us. 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod. 

That takes the sunshine and the 
rains. 



Or where the kneeling hamlet 
drains 
The chalice of the grapes of God ; 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 
Should gulf him fathom-deep in 

brine ; 
And hands so often clasp'd in 
mine. 
Should toss with tangle and with shells. 



Calm is the morn without a sound, 
Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 
And only thro' the faded leaf 

The chestnut pattering to the ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, 
And on these dews that drench 

the furze. 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold : 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn 

bowers. 
And crowded farms and lessening 
towers. 
To mingle with the bounding main : 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 
These leaves that redden to the 

fall ; 
And in my heart, if calm at all, 

If any calm, a calm despair : 

Calm on th'. seas, and silver sleep, 
And waves that sway themselves 

in rest, 
And dead calm in that noble 
breast 
Which heaves but with the heaving 
deep. 

XII. 

Lo, as a dove when up she springs 
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe, 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings ; 

Like her I go ; I cannot stay ; 

I leave this mortal ark behind, 
A weight of nerves without a mind. 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large, 

And reach the glow of southern 

skies, 
And see the sails at distance rise, 

And linger weeiiing on the marge. 

And saying ; " Comes he thus, my 
friend ? 
Is this the end of all my care ? " 
. And circle moaning in the air: 
" Is this the end ? Is this the end ? " 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And forward dart again, and play 

About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn 

That I have been an hour awav. 



Tears of the widower, when he sees 
■ A late-lost form that sleeji reveals, 
And moves his doubtful arms, 
and feels 
Her place is empty, fall like these ; 

Which weep a loss for ever new, 

A void where heart on heart re- 
posed ; 
And, where warm hands have 
prest and closed. 
Silence, till I be silent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my 
choice, 
An awful thought, a life re- 
moved, 
The human-hearted man I loved, 
A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many 
years, 
I do not suffer in a dream : 
For now so strange do these 
tilings seem. 
Mine eyes liave leisure for their 
tears ; 

My fancies time to rise on wing. 

And glance about the approach- 
ing sails. 
As tho' tliey brought but mer- 
chants' bales. 
And not the burthen that they bring. 



If one should bring me this report, 
Tliat tliou hadst touch'd the land 

to-day. 
And I went down unto the quay. 

And found thee lying in the port ; 

And standing, muiHed round with 
woe. 
Should see thy passengers in 

rank 
Come stepping lightly down the 
plank. 
And beckoning unto those they know; 

And if along with these should come 
The man I held as lialf-divine ; 
Should strike a sudden hand in 
mine, 

And ask a thousand things of home ; 



And I should tell him all my pain. 
And how my life had droop'd of 

late. 
And he should sorrow o'er my 
state ' 
And marvel what possess'd my brain ; 

And I perceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame. 
But found him all in all the 
same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 



To-night the winds begin to rise 

And roar from yonder dropping 

day: 
The last red leaf is whirl'd away. 

The rooks are blown about the skies ; 

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd. 
The cattle huddled on the lea ; 
And wildly dash'd on tower and 
tree 

The sunbeam strikes along the world : 

And but for fancies, which aver 

Tliat all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could brook the strain and 
stir 

That makes the barren branches 
loud ; 
And but for fear it is not so, 
Tlie wild unrest tliat lives in woe 

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always liigher, 

And onward drags a laboring 

breast, 
And topples round the dreary 
west, 
A looming bastion fringed with fire. 



What words are these have fall'n 
from me ? 
Can calm despair and wild unrest 
Be tenants of a single breast. 

Or sorrow such a changeling be ? 

Or doth she only seem to take 

The touch of change in calm or 

storm ; 
But knows no more of transient 
form 
In her deep self, than some dead lake 

That holds the shadow of a lark 

Hung in the shadow of a heaven ? 
Or has the shock, so harshly 
given. 

Confused me like the unhappy bark 



416 



IN MEMORIAM. 



That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 
And staggers blindly ere she 

sink? 
And stunn'd me from my power 
to think 
And all my knowledge of myself ; 

And made me that delirious man 

Whose fancy fuses old and new, 
And flashes into false and true, 

And mingles all without a plan 7 

XVII. 

Thou comest, much wept for : such a 
breeze 
Compell'd thy canvas, and ray 

prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 
To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 

Thro' circles of the bounding 

sky. 
Week after week : the days go 
by: 
Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou may'st 
roam, 
Mj' blessing, like a line of light. 
Is on the waters day and night. 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 

Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred 

bark ; 
And balmy drops in summer 
dark 
Slide from the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done, 

Such precious relics brought by 

thee ; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run. 



'Tis well ; 'tis something ; we may 
stand 
Where he in English earth is laid, 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'Tis little ; but it looks in truth 

As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear the 
head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of 

sleep. 
And come, whatever loves to 
weep. 
And hear the ritual of the dead. 



Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart, 
Would breathing thro' his lips 
impart 

The life that almost dies in me; 

That dies not, but endures with pain, 
And slowly forms the firmer 

mind, 
Treasuring the look it cannot 
find. 
The words that are not heard again. 



The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darken'd heart that beat no 

more ; 
They laid him by the pleasant 
shore, 
And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes by. 
And hushes half the babbling 
Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along, 
And hush'd my deepest grief of 

all. 
When fill'd with tears that can- 
not fall, 
I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again. 

Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 

My deeper anguish also falls, 
And I can speak a little then. 



The lesser griefs that may be said. 
That breathe a thousand tender 

vows. 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead ; 

Who speak their feeling as it is. 

And weep the fulness from the 

mind: 
" It will be hard," they say, " to 
find 
Another service such as this." 

My lighter moods are like to these. 
That out of words a comfort 

win ; 
But there are' other griefs within. 
And tears that at their fountain 
freeze ; 

For by the hearth the children sit 
Cold in that atmosphere of 

Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the 
breath. 
Or like to noiseless phantoms flit : 



IN MEMORIAM. 



417 



But open converse is there none, 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and 
think, 
" How good ! how kind ! and he is 
gone." 



I sing to liim that rests below, 

And, since the grasses round me 

wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave, 
And make them pipes whereon to 
blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then, 
And sometimes harshly will he 

speak : 
" This fellow would make weak- 
ness weak, 
And melt the waxen hearts of men." 



From April on to April went, 
And glad at heart from May to Alay : 

But where the path we walk'd began 
To slant the fifth autumnal slope. 
As we descended following Hope, 

There sat the Shadow fear'd of man ; 

Who broke our fair companionship. 
And spread his mantle dark and 

cold, 
And wrapt thee formless in the 
fold, 
And duU'd the murmur on thy lip, 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste. 
And think, that somewhere in the 
waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 



Another answers, " Let him be, 

He loves to make parade of pain. 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy." 

A third is wroth : " Is this an hour 
For private sorrow's barren song. 
When more and more the people 
throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil power ? 

" A time to sicken and to swoon. 

When Science reaches forth her 

arms 
To feel from world to world, and 
charms 
Her secret from the latest moon ? " 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing : 

Ye never knew the sacred dust : 
I do but sing because I must, 

And pipe but as the linnets sing : 

And one is glad ; her note is gay. 

For now her little ones have 

ranged ; 
And one is sad her note is 
changed. 
Because her brood is stol'n away. 



XXII. 

The path by which we twain did go. 
Which led by tracts that pleased 

us well. 
Thro' four sweet years arose and 
fell, 
From flower to flower, from snow to 
snov/ : 

And we with singing cheer'd the way. 
And, crown'd with all the season 
lent, 



Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 
Or breaking into song by fits, 
Alone, alone, to where he sits. 

The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot. 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame. 
And looking back to whence I 
came. 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying. How changed from where 
it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was 

dumb ; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 
The murmur of a happy Pan : 

When each by turns was guide to each. 
And Fancy light from Fancy 

caught. 
And Thought leapt out to wed 
with Thought 
Ere Thought could wed itself with 
Speech ; 

And all we met was fair and good. 
And all was good that Time could 

bring. 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 

And many an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang. 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady. 



And was the day of my delight 
As pure and perfect as jl say ? 
The very source and fount of Day 

Is dash'd with wandering isles of 
night. 



418 



IN MEMORIAM. 



If all was good and fair we met, 

This eartli had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since our first Sun arose and set. 

And is it that the liaze of grief 

Makes former gladness loom so 

great ? 
The lowness of the present state, 

That sets the past in this relief ? 

Or that the past will always win 
A glory from its being far ; 
And orl) into the perfect star 

We saw not, when we moved therein ? 



I know that this was life, — the track 
Whereon with equal feet we 

fared ; 
And then, as now, the day pre- 
pared 
The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 
As light as carrier-birds in air ; 
I loved the weight I had to bear, 

Because it needed help of Love : 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb, 

When mighty Love would cleave 

in twain 
The lading of a single pain. 

And part it, giving half to him. 



Still onward winds the dreary way ; 
I with it ; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker 
Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 
And goodness, and hath power 

to see 
Within the green the moulder'd 
tree. 
And towers fall'n as soon as built — 

Oh, if indeed that eye foresee 

Or see (in Ilim is no before) 

In more of life true life no more 

And Love the indifference to be. 

Then might I find, ere yet the morn 
Breaks iiither over Indian seas. 
That shadow waiting with the 
keys, 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 

XXVII. 

I envy not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet born within the cage. 

That never knew the summer woods : 



I envy not the beast that takes 

His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest. 
The heart that never plighted 

troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of 
sloth; 
Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, what'er befuU; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII. 

The time .draws near the birtli of 
Christ : 
The moon is hid ; the night is still ; 
The Christmas bells from hill to 
hill 
Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round. 
From far and near, on mead and 

moor, 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound : 

Each voice four changes on the wind. 
That now dilate, and now de- 
crease, 
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and 
peace, 
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake. 
And that my hold on life would 
break 

Before I heard those bells again ■ 

But they my troubled spirit rule. 

For theycontroU'd mewhenaboy; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd 
with joy, 

The merry merry bells of Yule. 



With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
And chains regret to his decease 

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve ; 

Which brings no more a welcome 

guest 
To enrich the threshold of the 

night 
With shower'd largess of delight 
In dance and song and game and jest ? 

Yet go, and while the holly boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font, 
Make one wreath more for Use 
and Wont, 

That guard the portals of the house; 



IX MEMORIAM. 



419 



Old sisters of a day gone by, 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new ; 
Why should they miss tlieir 
yearly due 
Before their time '^ They too will 
die. 



With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, 

And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gambol'd, making vain pre- 
tence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused : the winds were in the 
beech : 
We heard them sweep the winter 

land ; 
And in a circle hand-in-hand 
Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang ; 

We simg, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year ; impetuously we sang : 

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept 
Upon us : surely rest is meet r 
" They rest," we said, " their sleep 
is sweet," 

And silence follow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higlier range; 

Once more we sang : " They do 

not die 
Nor lose their mortal sympathy. 
Nor change to us, although they 
change ; 

" Rapt from the fickle and the frail 
With gather'd power, yet the 

same. 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

Prom orb to orb, from veil to veil." 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn. 
Draw forth the cheerful day from 

night : 
Pather, touch the east, and 
light 
The light that shone when Hope was 
born. 



When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, 
And home to Mary's house re- 

turn'd, 
Was this demanded — if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping b}' his grave 1 



" Where wert tliou, brother, those 
four days ? " 
There lives no record of reply, 
Which telling what it is to die 

Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met. 
The streets were fiU'd with joyful 

sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 

Tlie rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 

He told it not; or something 
seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer. 
Nor other thought her mind ad- 
mits 
But, he was dead, and there he 
sits. 
And he that brought him back is 
there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's 
face. 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears, 
Borne down by gladness so com- 
plete. 
She bows, she bathes the 
Saviour's feet 
With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful 
prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love en- 
dure ; 
What souls possess themselves so 
pure, 
Or is their blessedness like theirs ? 

XXXIII. 

O thou that after toil and storm 

Mayst seem to have reach'd a 

purer air, 
Whose faith has centre every- 
where, 
Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister when she prays, 
Her early Heaven, her happy 

views ; 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint con- 
fuse 
A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine. 
Her hands are quicker unto good : 



420 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood 
To which she links a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within. 
Thou fail not in a world of sin, 

And ev'n for want of such a type. 



My own dim life should teach me 
this, 
That life shall live for evermore. 
Else earth is darkness at the core, 

And dust and aslies all that is ; 

This round of green, this orb of flame, 
Fantastic beauty; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I ? 

'Twere hardly worth my while to 
choose 

Of things all mortal, or to use 
A little patience ere I die ; 

'Twere best at once to sink to peace. 
Like birds the charming serpent 

draws. 
To drop head-foremost in the 
jaws 
Of vacant darkness and to cease. 



XXXV. 

Yet if some voice that man could 
trust 
Should murmur from the narrow 

house, 
" The cheeks drop in ; the body 
bows ; 
Man dies : nor is there hope in dust : " 

Might I not say ? " Yet even here. 
But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive : " 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The moanings of the homeless sea. 
The sound of streams that swift 

or slow 
Draw down Ionian hills, and 
sow 
The dust of continents to be ; 

And Love would answer Avith a sigh, 
"The sound of that forgetful 

shore 
AVill change my sweetness more 
and more, 
Half-dead to know that I shall die." 

O me, what profits it to put 

An idle case ? If Death were 
seen 



At first as Death, Love had not 

been. 
Or been in narrowest working shut. 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, 
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 
Had bruised the herb and crush'd 
the grape. 

And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 



Tho' truths in manhood darkly join. 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame. 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin ; 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 
Wfiere truth in closest words shall 

fail. 
When truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and 
wrought 
With human hands the creed of 

creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds. 
More strong than all poetic thought; 

Which he may read that binds the 
sheaf. 
Or builds the house, or digs the 

grave. 
And those wild eyes that watch 
the wave 
In roarings round the coral reef. 



Urania speaks with darken'd brow : 
"Thou pratest here where thou 

art least ; 
This faith has many a purer priest, 

And many an abler voice than thou. 

" Go down beside thy native rill. 
On thy Parnassus set thy feet, 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill." 

And my Meliiomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek : 
" I am not worthy ev'n to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries ; 

" For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart. 

And render human love his dues ; 

" But brooding on the dear one dead. 
And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying lips is all he said), 



IN MEMORIAM. 



421 



" I murmur'd, as I came along, 

Of comfort clasp'd in truth re- 

veal'd ; 
And loiter'd in the master's field, 

And darken'd sanctities with song." 



With weary steps I loiter on, 

Tho' always under alter'd skies 
The purf»le from the distance dies, 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives, 
The herald melodies of spring, 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 

Survive in spirits render'd free, 
Then are these songs I sing of 
thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 

XXXIX. 

Old warder of these buried bones. 
And answering now my random 

stroke 
With fruitful cloud and living 
smoke, 
Dark yew, that graspest at the stones 

And dippest toward the dreamless 
head. 
To thee too comes the golden hour 
When flower is feeling after 
flower ; 
But Sorrow — fixt upon the dead. 

And darkening the dark graves of 
men, — 
What whisper'd from her lying 

lips? 
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, 
And passes into gloom again. 



Could we forget the widow'd hour 
And look on Spiiits breathed 

away. 
As on a maiden in the day 
When first she wears her orange- 
flower ! 

When crown'd with blessing she doth 
rise 
To take her latest leave of home. 
And hopes and light regrets that 
come 
Make April of her tender eyes ; 

And doubtful joys the father move, 
And tears are on the mother's 

face. 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love ; 



Her ofiice there to rear, to teach, 
Becoming as is meet and fit 
A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
\ life that bears immortal fruit 
In those great ofl[ices that suit 

The full-grown energies of heaven. 

A}"- me, the difference I discern ! 

How often shall her old fireside 
Be cheer'd with tidings of the 
bride. 

How often she herself return, 

And tell them all they would have 
told. 
And bring her babe, and make 

her boast. 
Till even those that miss'd her 
most 
Shall count new things as dear as old : 

But thou and I have shaken hands. 
Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know. 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 

Did ever rise from high to higher ; 

As mounts the heavenward altar- 
fire, 
As flies the lighter thro' the gross. 

But thou art turn'd to something 
strange. 
And I have lost the links that 

bound 
Thy changes ; here upon the 
ground, 
No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly ! yet that this could be — 
That I could wing my will with 

might 
To leap the grades of life and 
light. 
And flash at once, my friend, to thee. 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 

To that vague fe.lr implied in 

death ; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath. 

The bowlings from forgotten fields ; 

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor 
An inner trouble 1 behold, 
A spectral doubt which makes me 
cold, 

That I shall be thy mate no more, 

Tho' following with an upward mind 
The wonders that have come to 
thee, 



422 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Thro' all the secular to-be, 
But evermore a lite behind. 



I vex my heart with fancies dim : 

He still outstript me in the race ; 
It was but imity of place 

That made me dream 1 rank'd with 
him. 

And so may Place retain us still, 

And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will : 

And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 
When one that loves but knows 
not, reaps 
A truth from one that loves and 
knows ? 

XLIII. 

If Sleep and Death be truly one. 
And every spirit's folded bloom 
Thro' all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber on; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour, 
Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower : 

So then were nothing lost to man ; 
So that still garden of the souls 
In many a figured leaf enrolls 

The total world since life began ; 

And love will last as pure and whole 
As when he loved me here in 

Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Kewaken with the dawning soul. 

XLIV. 

How fares it with the happy dead ? 

For here the man is more and 
more ; 

But he forgets the days before 
God shut the doorways of his head. 

The days have vnnish'd, tone and tint, 
And yet i)erhaps the hoarding 

sense 
Gives out at times (he kno\vs not 
whence) 
A little flash, a mystic hint ; 

And in the long harmonious years 
(If Death so taste Lethean 

springs). 
May some dim touch of earthly 
things 
Surprise thee ranging with X\\\ peers. 



If such a dreamy touch should fall, 
O turn thee round, resolve the 

doubt ; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 



The baby new to earth and sky. 

What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of tlie breast, 

Has never thought that " this is I : " 

But as he grows he gathers much. 
And learns the use of " I," and 

" me," 
And finds " I am not what I see, 

And other than the things I toucli." 

So rounds he to a separate mind 

From whence clear memory may 

begin. 
As thro' the frame that binds him 
in 
His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath, 
Which else were fruitless of their 

due, 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of Death. 



We ranging down this lower track. 
The path we came by, thorn and 

flower. 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour, 

Lest life should fail in looking back. 

So be it : there no shade can last 

In that deep dawn behind the 

tomb, 
But clear from marge to marge 
shall bloom 
The eternal landscape of the past ; 

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd ; 

The fruitful hours of still increase ; 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace. 
And those five years its richest field. 

Love, thy province were not large, 
A bounded field, nor stretching 

far; 
Look also. Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 



That each, who seems a separate 
whole, 
Should move his rounds, and fus- 
ing all 
The skirts of self again, should 
fall 
Rcmerging in the general Soul, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



423 



Is faith as vague as all unsweet: 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside; 

And I shall know him when we meet : 

And we shall sit at endless feast, 

Enjoying each the other's good: 
What vaster dream can hit the 
mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away, 
Some landing-place, to clasp and 
say, 
" Farewell ! We lose ourselves in 
light." 



If these brief lays, of Sorrow born. 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here 
proposed. 

Then these were such as men might 



Her care is not to part and prove ; 
She takes, when harsher moods 

remit, 
What slender shade of doubt ma3' 
flit, 
And makes it vassal unto love : 

And hence, indeed, she sports with 
words. 
But better serves a wholesome 

law, 
And holds it sin and shame to 
draw 
The deepest measure from the chords : 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay. 

But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that 
dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 

XLIX. 

From art, from nature, from the 
schools. 
Let random influences glance, 
Like light in many ashiver'd lance 

That breaks about the dappled pools : 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, 
The fancy's tenderest eddy 

wreathe, 
The slightest air of song shall 
breathe 
To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way, 
But blame not thou the winds that 

make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break, 

The tender-pencil'd shadow play. 



Beneath all fancied hopes and fears 
Ay me, the sorrow deepens down. 
Whose muffled motions blindly 
drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 



Be near me when my light is low. 

When the blood creeps, and the 

nerves prick 
And tingle ; and the heart is sick. 

And all the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer 

trust ; 
And Time, a maniac scattering 
dust, 
And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dry. 

And meii the flies of latter spring. 
That lay their eggs, and sting 
and sing 

And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away. 

To point the term of human strife. 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 



Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side ? 
Is there no baseness we would 
hide 1 

No inner vileness that we dread ■? 

Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his 

blame. 
See with clear eye some hidden 
shame 
And I be lessen'd in his love ? 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue : 
Shall love be blamed for want of 

faith ? 
There must be M'isdom with great 
Death : 
The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when we climb or fall : 
Ye watch, like God, the rolling 

hours 
With larger other eyes than ours, 

To make allowance for us all. 



1 cannot love thee as I ought, 

For love reflects tlie thing be- 
loved ; 
My words are only words, and 
moved 
Upon the topmost froth of thought. 



424 



IX MEMORIAM. 



" Yet blame not thou m}- plaintive 
song," 
The Spirit of true love replied ; 
" Thou canst not move me from 
thy side, 
Nor human frailty do mc wrong. 

" What keeps a spirit wholly true 
To that ideal which he bears f 
What record ? not the sinless 
years 
That breathed beneath the Syrian 
blue : 

" So fret not, like an idle girl, 

That life is dash'd with flecks of 

sin. 
Abide : thy wealth is gather'd in. 
When Time hath sunder'd shell from 
pearl." 



How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man, among his boys, 
Whose youth was full of foolish 
noise, 
Who wears his rrtanhood hale and 
green : 

And dare we to this fancy give, 

That had the wild oat not been 

sown. 
The soil, left barren, scarce had 
grown 
The grain by which a man may live ? 

Or, if we held the doctrine sound 

For life outliving heats of youth. 
Yet who would preach it as a 
truth 

To those that eddy round and round ? 

Hold thoTi the good : define it well : 
For fear divine Philosophy 
Should push beyond her mark, 
and be 

Procuress to the Lords of Hell. 



Oh yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be de- 

stroy'd, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void. 
When God hath made the pile com- 
plete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another's gain. 



Behold, we know not anything ; 

I can but trust that good shall 
fall ) ■/ 

At last — far off — at last, to all, ■ , 
And every winter change to spring. J 

So runs my dream : but what am I ; 
An infant crying in the night : 
An infant crying for the light : 

And with no language but a cry. 



The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail bej'ond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within tlie soul 1 

Are God and Nature then at strife. 
That Nature lends such evil 

dreams .' 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 

Her secret meaning in her deeds. 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod. 

And falling with my weight of 
cares 

Upon the great world's altar-stairs 
That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and 
grope. 
And gather dust and chaff, and 

call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 
And faintly trust the larger hope. 



" So careful of the type '? " but no. 
From scarped cliff and quarried 

stone 
She cries, " A thousand types are 
gone : 
I care for nothing, all shall go. 

" Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, I bring to death : 
The spirit does but mean the 
breath : 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so 
fair. 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who roU'd the psalm to wintry 
skies, 
Who built him fanes of fruitless 
prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed 
And love Creation's final law — 



IN MEMORIAM. 



425 



Tho' Nature, red in tooth and 
claw 
With ravine, shriek'd against his 
creed — 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, 
Who battled for the True, the 

Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust. 

Or seal'd within the iron hills 1 

No more ? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the 

prime, 
That tare each other in their 
slime. 
Were mellow music match'd with him. 

O life as futile, then, as frail ! 

O for thy voice to soothe and 
bless ! . 

What hope of answer, or redress ? 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 



Peace ; come away : the song of ^^'oe 
Is after all an earthly song r 
Beace ; come away : we do him 
wrong 

To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come ; let us go : your cheeks are 
pale; 
But half my life I leave behind ; 
Methinks my friend is richly 
shrined ; 
But I shall pass ; my work will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till liearing dies. 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 

I hear it now, and o'er and o'er. 
Eternal greetings to the dead ; 
And " AA^e, Ave, Ave," said, 

" Adieu, adieu " for evermore. 

LVIII. 

In those sad words I took farewell : 

•Like echoes in sepulchral halls. 

As drop by drop tlie water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 
Of hearts that beat from day to 

day, 
Half-conscious of their dying 
clay, 
And those cold crypts where they 
shall cease. 

The high Muse answer'd : " Wherefore 
grieve 
Thy brethren with a fruitless 
tear? 



Abide a little longer here. 
And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 



Sorrow, wilt thou live with me 
No casual mistress, but a wife, 
My bosom-friend and lialf of 
life ; 

As I confess it needs must be ; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride. 
And put thy harsher moods aside. 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. 

My centred passion cannot move. 
Nor will it lessen from to-day ; 
But I'll have leave at times to 
play 

As with the creature of my love ; 

And set thee forth, for thou art mine, 
With so much hope for years to 

come. 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 
Could hardly tell what name were 
thine. 



He past ; a soul of nobler tone : 

My spirit loved and loves him 

yet. 

Like some poor girl whose heart 
is set 
On one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere. 
She finds the baseness of her lot. 
Half jealous of she knows not 
M'hat, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn ; 

She sighs amid her narrow days, 
Moving about the household 
ways. 
In that dark house where she was 
born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go, 
And tease her till the day draws 

by: 
At night she weeps, " How vain 
am I ! 
How should he love a thing so low "J " 



If, in thy second state sublime. 

Thy ransom'd reason change 

replies 
With all the circle of the wise. 

The perfect flower of human time ; 



426 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And if thou cast thine eyes below, 
How dimly character'd and slight, 
How dwarf 'd a growth of cold and 
night, 
How blanch 'd with darkness must I 
grow ! 

Yet turn thee to tlie doubtful sliore, 
Where thy first form was made a 

man; 
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor 
can 
The soul of Shakspeare love tlieemoro. 



Tho' if an eye that's downward cast 
Could make thee somewhat blench 

or fail, 
Then be my love an idle tale, 

And fading legend of the j^ast ; 

And thou, as one that once declined, 
When he was little more than boy, 
On some unworthy heart with joj', 

But lives to wed an equal mind ; 

And breathes a novel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies. 
Or in the light of deeper eyes 

Is matter for a flying smile. 



Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven, 

And love in which my hound has 

part, 
Can hang no weight upon my 
heart 
In its assumptions uj) to heaven ; 

And I am so much more than these. 
As thou, perchance, art more than 

I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy, 

And I wo'\ild set their pains at ease. 

So mayst thou watch me where I weep. 
As, imto vaster motions bound, 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 



Dost thou look back on what hath 
been, 
i As some divinely gifted man, 

■ Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 
And grasps the skirts of happy 
, chance, • 

7 And breasts the blows of circum- 

stance. 
And grapples with his evil star ; 



Who makes by force his merit known ^ 

And lives to clutch the golden \ 

keys, / 

To mould a mighty state's decrees, ( 

And sliape the whisper of the throne; 

And moving up from high to higher, 

Becomes on Fortune's crowning ^ 

slope ' ( 

The pillar of a people's hope, / 

The centre of a world's desire ; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream. 

When all his active powers are 

still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream. 

The limit of his narrower fate. 

While yet beside its vocal springs 
He jilay'd at counsellors andkings, 

With one tliat was his earliest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands. 
Or in the furrow musing stands ; 

" Does my old friend remember me % " 



Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; 
I lull a fancy trouble-tost 
AYith " Love's too precious to be 
lost, 

A little grain shall not be spilt." 

And in that solace can I sing. 

Till out of painful phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-]i)alanced on a lightsome wing : 

Since we deserved the name of friends. 
And thine effect so lives in me, 
A part of mine may live in thee 

And move thee on to noble ends. 



You thought my heart too far diseased; 
You wonder when my fancies play 
To find me gay among the gay, 

Like one with any trifle pleased. 

The shade by which my life was crost. 
Which makes a desert in the mind, 
Has made me kindly with my 
kind, 

And like to him whose sight is lost ; 

Whose feet are guided thro' the land, 
Whose jest among his friends is 

free. 
Who takes the children on his 
knee, 
And winds their curls about his hand : 

He plays with threads, he beats his 
chair 
For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



■\n 



His inner day can never die, 
His night of loss is always there. 

LXVII. 

When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest 
By that liroad water of the west, 

"There conies a glorv on tlie walls : 



Thy marble bright in. dark ajipears. 
As slowly steals a silver flame 
Along the letters of thy name, 

And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away ; 

From otf my bed the moonlight 
dies : 




" / found a wood with thorny boughs, 
I took the thorns to bind my brows." 



And closing eaves of wearied eyes 
I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast. 
And in the dark church like a 
ghost 

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 



When in the down I sink my head. 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times 

my breath ; 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, 
knows not Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead : 



I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn, 

AVhen all our path was fresh with 

dew, 
And all the bugle breezes blew 

Reveillee to the breaking morn. 

But what is this ? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye, 
Which makes me sad I know not 
why, 

Nor can my dream resolve tlie doubt: 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 
I wake, and T discern the truth ; 
It is the trouble of my youth 

That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 



428 



IN ME MORI AM. 



I dream'd there would be Sprint^ no 
more, 
That Nature's ancient power was 

lost : 
The streets were black with smoke 
and frost, 
They chatter'd trifles at the door : 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny 

boughs : 
I took the thorns to bind my 
brows, 
I wore them like a civic crown : 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 
From youth and babe and hoary 

hairs : 
They call'd me in the public 
squares 
The fool that wears a crown of thorns : 

They call'd me fool, they call'd me 
child: . 
I found an angel of the night ; 
The voice was low, the look was 
bright ; 
He look'duponmy crown and smiled: 

He reach'd the glory of a hand, 

Thatseem'dto touch it into leaf: 
The voice was not the voice of 
grief, 

The words were hard to understand. 



I cannot see the features right, 

When on the gloom I strive to 

paint 
The face I know ; the hues are 
faint 
And mix with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons 

wrought, 

A gulf that ever sliuts and gapes, 

A hand that points, and palled 

shapes 

In shadow}' thorouglifares of thought ; 

And crowds tliat stream from yawn- 
ing doors, 
And slioals of pucker'd faces 

drive ; 
T)arkl)ulks that tumble half alive. 
And lazy lengths on boundless shores ; 

Till all at once beyond the v.ill 
I hear a wizard music roll. 
And thro' a lattice on the soul 

Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 



LXXI. 

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and 
trance 
And madness, thou hast forged 

at last 
A night-long Present of the Past 
In which we went thro' summer 
Prance. 

Hadst thou such credit with the soul 1 
Then bring an opiate trebly 

strong. 
Drug down the blindfold sense of 
wrong 
That so my pleasure may be whole; 

While now we talk as once we talk'd 
Of men and minds, the dust of 

change. 
The days that grow to something 
strange. 
In walking as of old we walk'd 

Beside the river's wooded reach, 

The fortress, and the mountain 

ridge, 
The cataract flashing from the 
bridge. 
The breaker breaking on the beach. 

LXXII. 

Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
And howlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar 
white, 
And lash with storm the streamings 
pane ? 

Day, when my crown'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom, 
Which sicken'd every living 
bloom. 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun ; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 
With thy quick tears that make 

the rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fringes to the shower; 

Who might'st have heaved a windless 
flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering,- 

play'd 
A chequer-work of beam and 
shade 
Along the hills, yet look'd the same. 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now; 

Day, mark'd as with some hideous 

crime. 
When the dark hand struck down 
thro' time. 
And cancell'd nature's best: but thou,. 



/iV MEMORIAM. 



429 



Lift as thou may'st W\y burthcn'd 
brows 
Thro' clouds that drench the 

morning star, 
And whirl the ungaruer'd slieaf 
afar, 
And sow the sky with flying boughs, 

And up thy vault with roaring sound • 
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous 

day ; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless 
gray, 
And hide thy shame beneath the 
ground. 

LXXIII. 

So many worlds, so much to do, 

So little done, such things to be, 
How know I what had need of 
thee, 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true? 

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw, 
The head hath miss'd an earthly 

wreath : 
I curse not nature, no, nor death ; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass ; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with Aveeds : 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age ? It rests with God. 

hollow wraith of dying fame. 

Fade wholly, while the soul 

exults. 
And self-infolds the large results 
Of force that would have forged a 
name. 

LXXIV. 

As sometimes in a dead man's face, 
To those that watch it more and 

more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before, 

Comes out — to some one of his race : 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I see thee what thou art, and 

know 
Thy likeness to the wise below, 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

But there is more than I can see, 
And what I see I leave unsaid, 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has 
made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 



I leave thy praises luiexpress'd 

In verse that brings mj^self relief. 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guess'd ; 



What practice howsoe'er exi^ert 

In fitting aptest words to things, 
Or voice the richest-toned that 
sings, 

Hatii power to give thee as thou wert ? 

I care not in these fading days 

To raise a cry that lasts not long. 
And round thee with the breeze 
of song 

To stir a little dust of jiraise. 

Thy leaf has perisli'd in the green, 
And, while we breathe beneath the 

sun. 
The world which credits what is 
done 
Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame ; 

But somewhere, out of human 
view, 

Whate'er thy hands are set to do 
Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 

LXXVI. 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend, 
And in a moment' set thy face 
Wliere all the starry heavens of 
space 

Are sharpen'd to a needle's end ; 

Take wings of foresight ; lighten thro' 
The secular abyss to come, 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew ; 

And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
Thine own shall wither in the vast. 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their branchy 
bowers 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are 

vain ; 
And what are they when these 
remain 
The ruin'd shells of hollow towers 1 

LXXVII. 

What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him, who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, 
that lie 

Foreshorten'd in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 

May bind a book, may line a box, 
May serve to curl a maiden's 
locks ; 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find. 

And, passing, turn the page that 
tells 



430 



IX MKMORIAM. 



A gri(.'f, tlicn i-hanjiotl to some- 
tliiiiur else, 
Sung by a long-forgotton luind. 

But wliat of that ? My darken 'd ways 
Sliali rinu; with nuisif all the same; 
To breatlie my k)ss is more than 
fame, 

To utter hive more sweet tlian jtraise. 

Lxxvii:. 
Atrain at Christmas did we weave 

The Iiolly round the C'in-istmas 

hearth : 
The silent snow possess'd the 
earth. 
And cahnly fell our Christmas-eve : 

The yule-eloji sjiarkled keen witii frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept. 
But over all things brooding slejit 

The quiet sense of souiethiug lost. 

As in the winters left behind. 

Again our ancient games liad 

place, 
The mimic picture's breatliing 
grace, 
And dance and song and hoodman- 
blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress \ 

No single tear, no mark of paiu : 

sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 
O grief, can grief be changed to less ? 

O last regret, regret can die ! 

No — mixt with all this mystic 
frame. 

Her deep relations are the same, 
But with long use her tears are dry. 

LXXIX. 

" More than my brothers are to nie," — 
Let this not vex thee, noble heart ! 

1 know thee of what force thou 
art 

To hold the costliest love in fee. 

But thou and I are one in kind, 

As moulded like in Nature's mint; 
And hill and wood and field did 
print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curl'd 
Thro' all his eddying coves , tiie 

same 
All winds that roam the twilight 
came 
In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we proffer 'd vows. 
One lesson from one book we 
learn'd. 



Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet 
turn'd 
To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine, 
Hut he was rich wliere I was poor^ 
Andlu'supi)liedni_v wantthemore 

As liis unlikeness titted mine. 



If any vague desire should rise, 

That holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moved me kindly from liis 

side, 
And dropt the dust on tearless eyes ; 

Then fanej- shapes, as fancy can, 

The grief my loss in him had 

wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought,. 

But sta^'d in peace with God and man, 

I make a picture in the brain ; 

1 hear the sentenci- that he speaks; 

He bears the burthen of the weeks 
But turns his burthen into gain. 

His credit tlius shall set me free; 

And, influence-rich to soothe and 
save. 

Unused example from the grave 
Reach out dead hands to comfort me^ 



Could I have said while he was here, 
" My love shall now no further 

range ; 
There cannot come a mellower 
change. 
For now is love mature in ear." 

Love, then, had hope of richer store : 
What end is here to my com- 
plaint ? 
This haunting whisper makes me 
faint, 
" More years had made me love thee 
more." 

But Death returns an answer sweet : 
" My sudden frost was sudden 

gain, 
And gave all ripeness to the grain, 

It might have drawn from after-heat." 



I wage not any feud with Death 

For changes wrought on form and 

face ; 
No lower life that earth's embrace 
May breed with him, can fright my 
faith. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



431 



Eternal process movinji on, 

From state to state the spirit 

walks ; 
And tiicse are but the shatter'd 
stalks, 
Or ruin'd clirysalis of one. 

Nor l>iaine I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth : 
I know transphmted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 

The wrath that garners in my 

heart ; 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 

LXXXIII. 

Dip down upon tlie northern shore, 
() sweet new-year delaying long; 
Thou doest expectant nature 
wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded 
noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper 

place ''. 
Can trouble live with April days, 
Or sadness in the sunnuer moons "? 

Bring orcliis, bring tlie foxglove spire, 
The littli'Si)eedwcirsdarlingblue, 
Deep tulips dasli'd with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

thou, new-year, delaying long, 

Delayest tlie sorrow in my blood. 

That longs to burst a frozen bud 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 

LXXXIV. 

When I contemplate all alone ^ 

The life that had l)een tliine below, 

And fix m\^ thoughts on all the 

glow 

To which tliy crescent would have 

grown ; 

1 see thee sitting crown'd with good, 

A central warmth diffusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp 
and kiss, 
( )m all the branches of thy blood ; 

Thy l)lood, my friend, and partly mine; 
For now the daj' was drawing on. 
When thou should'st link thy life 
with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled " Uncle " on my knee ; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
•Made cypress of her orange flower, 

Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 



I seem to meet their least desire, 

To clap their cheeks, to call them 

mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I sec myself an honor'd guest, 

'i'hy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk, 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest ; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lii)s of men with honest praise, 
And sun by sun the hai)py days 

Descend below the golden hills 

With promise of a morn as fair ; 

And all the train of bounteous 

hours 
Conduct by paths of growing 
powers, 
To reverence and the silver hair ; 

Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 
Her lavish mission richly 

wrought, 
Leaving great legacies of thought, 
Thy sjjirit should fail from off the 
globe ; 

What time mine own might also flee, 
As link'd with thine in love and 

fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous 
strait 
To the other shore, involved in thee, 

Arrive at last the blessed goal. 

And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining 
hand. 

And take us as a single soul. 

AVhat reed was that on which I leant ? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore 

wake 
The old bitterness again, and 
break 
The low^ beginnings of content. 



This truth came borne with bier and 
pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost, 

Than never to have loved at all 

O true in word, and tried in deed, 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common 
grief, 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd ; 



432 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And whether love for him liave 
drain 'cl 
My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the 

breast, 
Thro' light reproaches, half ex- 
prest, 
And loyal unto kindly laws. 

, My blood an even tenor kept, 
T Till on mine ear this message 

falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 
God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal 

state. 
In circle round the blessed gate. 
Received and gave him welcome 
there ; 

And led him thro' the blissful climes. 
And show'd him in the fountain 

fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of 
flesh 
Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim. 
Whose life, whose thoughts M'ere 

little worth. 
To wander on a darken'd earth, 
"Where all things round me breathed 
of him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 
O heart, with kindliest motion 
warm, 

sacred essence, other form, # 
O solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of imman will demands 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone, , 
His being working in mine own. 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 

A life tliat all the Muses deck'd 

With gifts of grace, that might 

express 
All-comprehensive tenderness. 

All-subtilizing intellect : 

And so my passion hatli not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind. 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 



Likewise the imaginative woe. 

That loved to handle spiritual 

strife. 
Diffused the shock thro' all my 
life. 
But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 

For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes tliat make us men. 

I woo your love : I count it crime 
To mourn for any overmuch ; 
I, the divided half of such 

A friendship as had master'd Time ; 

Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears : 
The all-assuming months and 
years 

Can take no part away from this : 

But Summer on the steaming floods, 
And Spring that swells the nar- 
row brooks, 
And Autumn, with a noise of 
rooks, 
That gather in the waning woods, 

And every pulse of wind and wave 
Recalls, in change of light or 

gloom, 
My old affection of the tomb. 

And my prime passion in tlie grave : 

My old affection of tlie tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to 

speak : 
"Arise, and get thee forth and 
seek 
A friendship for the years to come. 

" I watch thee from the quiet shore ; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 

But in dear words of liuman 
speech 
We two communicate no more." 

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it ? Canst thou feel for 
me 

Some painless sympathy with pain ? " 

And lightly does the whisper fall ; 

" 'Tis liard for thee to fatliom 
tliis ; 

I triumph in conclusive bliss. 
And that serene result of all." 

So hold I commerce with the dead ; 
Or so raethinks the dead would 
say ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



433 



Or so shall grief with symbols 
play 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Now looking to some settled end, 

That these things pass, and I shall 

prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with 
love, 
I crave your pardon, my friend ; 

If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 
The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, first friendship, equal 
powers. 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore, 
That beats within a lonely place, 
That 3^et remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no more, 

My heart, tho' widow"d, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone, 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living Ijreast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring. 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear. 
The primrose of the later year, 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 



Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
That roUest from the gorgeous 

gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood. 
And shadowing down the horned 
flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy 

breath 
Throughout ray frame, till Doubt 
and Death, 
III brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 

On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper "Peace." 



I past beside the reverend walls 

In which of old I wore the gown; 



I roved at random thro' the town. 
And saw the tumult of the halls ; 

And heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their high-built organs 

make, 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophet blazon'd on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distant 
shout, 
The measured pulse of racing 

oars 
Among the willows ; paced the 
shores 
And many a bridge, and all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the same ; and 

last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on tlie door : 

I linger'd ; all within was noise 
Of songs, and clapping hands, 
and boys 
That crash'd the glass and beat the 
floor; 

Where once we held debate, a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind and 

art. 
And labor, and the changing mart. 

And all the framework of the land ; 

When one would aim an arrow fair, 
But send it slackly from the 

string ; 
And one would pierce an outer 
ring. 
And one an inner, here and there ; 

And last the master-bowman, he, 

Would cleave the mark. A wil- 
ling ear 
We lent him. Who, but hung to 
hear 
The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and 
grace 
And music in the bounds of law. 
To those conclusions when we 
saw 
The God within him light his face. 

And seem to lift the form, and glow 
In azui"e orbits heavenly-wise ; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Michael Angelo. 

LXXXVIII. 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet. 
Rings Eden thro' the budded 
quicks. 



434 



IX MEMOKIAM. 



() toll me where the senses mix, 
O tell me where the passions meet, 

Whence radiate : fierce extremes em- 
ploy 
Tliy spirits in the darkening leaf. 
And in the midmost lieart of 
grief 
Thy passion clasps a secret joy : 

And I — my harp would prelude 
woe — 

I cannot all command the strings ; 

The glory of the sum of things 
Will flash along the chords and go. 

LXXXIX. 

Witch-elms tliat counterchange the 
floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and 

bright ; 
And thou, with all thy breadth 
and height 
Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 

How often, hitlier wandering down, 
My Artlmr found your shadows 

fair. 
And shook to all the liberal air 

The dust and din and steam of town : 

He brought an eye for all he saw ; 

He mixt in all our simple sports ; 

They pleased him, fresh from 
brawling courts 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

O joy to him in this retreat, 

Immantlcd in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the heat : 

sound to rout the brood of cares. 
The sweep of sc^'the in morning 

dew, 
The gust that round the garden 
flew. 
And tumbled half the mellowing 
pears ! 

bliss, when all in circle drawn 

About liini, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn : 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 

A guest, or happy sister, sung, 
Or here she brought the harp and 
flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon : 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray. 
And break the lifelong suinmer 
day 

With banquet in the distant woods ; 



Whereat we glanced from theme to 
tlieme, 
Discuss'd the books to love or 

hate, 
Or touch'd the changes of the 
state. 
Or threaded some Socratic dream ; 

But if 1 i)raised the bus}' town, 

lie loved to rail against it still. 
For " ground in yonder social 
mill 

We rub each other's angles down, 

" And merge " he said " in form and 
gloss 
The picturesque of man and 

man." 
We talk'd : the stream beneath 
us ran. 
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss. 

Or cool'd within tiie glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar. 
Before the crimson-circled star 

Had fall'n into her father's grave. 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers , 
We lieard behind the woodbine 

veil 
Tile milk that bubbled in the pail. 

And buzzings of the honied hours. 



He tasted love with lialf his mind, 
Nor ever drank the inviolate 

spring 
Wliere nighest heaven, who first 
could fling 
This bitter seed among mankind ; 

That could the dead, whose dying 
eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume 

tlieir life, 
The^y would but find in child and 
wife 
An iron welcome when they rise : 

'Twas well, indeed, when warm with 
wine. 
To pledge them with a kindly 

tear. 
To talk them o'er, to wish them 
here. 
To count their memories half divine ; 

But if they came who past away, 

Behold their brides in other 

hands ; 
The hard heir strides about their 
lands. 
And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tho' their sons were none of 
these, 



IN MEMORIAM. 



435 



Not less the yet-loved sire would 

make 
Confusion worse than death, and 
shake 
The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me : 
Whatever change the years have 

wrought, 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 



When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 
And rarely pipes the mounted 

thrush ; 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; 

Come, wear the form by which I 
know 
Thy spirit in time among thy 

peers ; 
The liope of unaccomplish'd years 
Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing 
change 
Maj' breathe, with many roses 

sweet. 
Upon the thousand waves of 
wheat. 
That ripple round the lonely grange ; 

Come : not in watches of the night, 
But where the sunbeam broodeth 

warm, 
Come, beauteous in thine after 
form. 
And like a finer light in light. 



If any vision should reveal 

Thy likeness, I might count it 
vain 

As but the canker of the brain ; 
Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 
Together in the days behind, 
I might but say, I hear a wind 

Of memory murmuring the past. 

Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view 
A fact within the coming year ; 
And tho' the months, revolving 
near, 
Should prove the phantom-warning 
true, 

They might not seem thy prophecies, 
But spiritual presentiments. 
And sucli refraction of events 

As often rises ere they rise. 



I shall not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native 
land 
Where first he walk'd when claspt in 
clay ? 

No visual shade of some one lost, 

But he, the Spirit himself, may 

come 
Where all the nerve of sense is 
numb ; 
Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

0, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjcctured bliss, 
O, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change. 

Descend, and toucli, and enter; hear 
The wish too strong for words to 

name ; 
That in this blindness of the 
frame 
My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 



How pure at heart and sound in head. 
With what divine affections bold 
Should be the man whose thought 
would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In A'ain shalt thou, or any, call 

The spirits from their golden day, 
Except, like them, thou too canst 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

The}^ haunt the silence of the breast. 
Imaginations calm and fair, 
The memory like a cloudless air. 

The conscience as a sea at rest : 

But when the heart is full of din. 

And doubt beside the portal waits. 
They can but listen at the gates. 

And hear the household jar within. 



By night we lingered on the lawn. 

For underfoot the herb was dry ; 
And genial warmth ; and o'er the 
^sky 

The silvery haze of summer drawn ; 

And calm that let the tapers burn 
Unwavering: not a cricket chirr'd'. 
The brook alone far-off was heard,. 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 



436 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And bats went round in fragrant skies, 
And wlieel'd or lit the filmy 

shapes 
That liaunt the dusk, with ermine 
capes 
And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; 

"While now we sang old songs that 
peal'd 
From knoll to knoll, where, 

couch'd at ease. 
The M'hite kine glimmer'd, and 
the trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one. 
Withdrew themselves from me 

and night, 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart ; I read 
Of that glad year which once had 

been. 
In those fall'n leaves which kept 
tlieir green. 
The noble letters of the dead : 

And strangely on the silence broke 
The silent-speaking words, and 

strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying 
change 
To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 
On doubts that drive the coward 

back. 
And keen thro' wordy snares to 
track 
Suggestion to her inmost cell. 

So word by word, and line by line, 
The dead man touch'd me from 

the past. 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

The living soul was flash'd on mine, 

And mine in this was wound, and 
whirl'd 
About empyreal heights of 

thought. 
And came on that which is, and 
caught 
The deep pulsations of the world, 

iEonian music measuring out 

The steps of Time — the shocks 

of Chance — 
The blows of Death. At length 
my trance 
Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with 
doubt. 

Vague words ! but ah, how hard to 
frame 



In matter-moulded forms of 

speech, 
Or ev'n for intellect to reach 
Thro' memory that which I became : 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 
The knolls once more where, 

couch'd at ease. 
The white kine glimmer'd, and 
the trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field : 

And suck'd from out the distant gloom 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore, 

And fluctuate all the still perfume. 

And gathering freshlier overhead, 
Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, 

and swung 
The heavy-folded rose, and flung 

The lilies to and fro, and said 

" The dawn, the dawn," and died 
away ; 
And East and West, without a 

breath, 
Mixt tlieir dim lights, like life 
and death, 
To broaden into boundless day. 



You say, but with no touch of scorn. 
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light- 
blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies, 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not ; one indeed I knew 

In many a subtle question versed, 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first. 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds. 
At last he beat his music out. 
There lives more faith in honest 
doubt, 

Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gather'd 
strength. 
He would not make his judgment 

blind. 
He faced the spectres of the mind 
And laid them : thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 

And Power was with him in the 

night. 
Which makes the darkness and 
the light. 
And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



437 



While Israel made their gods of 
gold, 
Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 



My love has talk'd with rocks and 
trees ; 
He finds on misty mountain- 
ground 
His own vast shadow glory- 
crown'd ; 
He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two iiartncrs of a married life — 

I look'd on these and thought of 

thee 
In vastness and in mystery, 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on 
eye, 
Their hearts of old have beat in 

tune. 
Their meetings made December 
June, 
Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest tliat he loves lier yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart. 

He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
Tho' rapt in matters dark and 
deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, 
He reads the secret of the star, 
He seems so near and yet so far. 

He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 
A wither'd violet is her bliss : 
She knows not what his great- 
ness is. 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and pliglited vows ; 
She knows but matters of the 
house, 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixt and cannot move, 
She darkly feels him great and 

wise, 
She dwells on him with faithful 
eyes, 
" I cannot understand : I love." 



XCVIII. 

You leave us : you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below, 
When I «'as there with him ; and 
go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath. 
That City. All her splendor 

seems 
No livelier tlian the wisp that 
gleams 
On Lethe in the eyes of Death. 

Let her great Danube rolling fair 

Enwind her isles, unmark'd of 

me : 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna ; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal ; friend from 

friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey 
By each cold hearth, and sad- 
ness flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of 
kings : 
And yet myself have heard him say, 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and 

fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves ; nor more content. 

He told me, lives in any crowd. 

When all is gay with lamps, and 

loud 

With sport and song, in booth and 

tent. 

Imperial halls, or open plain ; 

And wheels the circled dance, and 
breaks 

The rocket molten into flakes 
Of crimson or in emerald rain. 

xcix. 

Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again. 

So loud with voices of tlie birds. 

So thick with lowings of the 

herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red 
On yon swoU'n brook that bubbles 

fast 
By meadows breathing of the 
past. 
And woodlands holy to the dead ; 



43S 



IN MEMORIAM. 



WJio murmurest in the foliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming 

care, 
And Autumn laying here and 
there 
A fiery finger on the leaves ; 

AVho wakenest with thy balmy breath 
To myriads on the genial earth, 
Memories of bridal, or of birth, 

And unto myriads more, of death. 

O wheresoever those may be, 

Betwixt the slumber of the poles, 
To-day they count as kindred 
souls ; 
They know me not, but mourn with 
me. 



I climb the hill : from end to end 

Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not 
breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold, 
Or low morass and whispering 

reed, 
Or simple stile from mead to 
mead, 
Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 

That hears the latest linnet trill. 
Nor quarry trench'd along the 
hill 

And haunted by the wrangling daw ; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thro' meadowy 
curves. 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye, 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 



Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall 
sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down, 
Unloved, that beech will gather 
brown, 
This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, 
Ray round with flames her disk 

of seed, 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air ; 



Unloved, by many a sandy bar, 

The brook shall babble down the 

plain. 
At noon or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round the polar star; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove, 
And flood the haunts of hern and 

crake ; 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 

Till from the garden and the wild 
A fresh association blow, 
And year by year the landscape 
grow 

Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the 

glades ; 
And year by year our memory 
fades 
From all the circle of the hills. 



We leave the well-beloved place 

Where first we gazed upon the 

sky; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest 
cry. 
Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home, 

As down the garden-walks I 

move. 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, " Here thy boyhood 
sung 
Long since its matin song, and 

heard 
The low love-language of the bird 
In native hazels tassel-hung." 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 
Thy feet have stray'd in after 

hours 
With thy lost friend among the 
bowers. 
And this hath made them trebly 
dear." 

These two have striven half the day. 
And each prefers his separate 

claim, 
Poor rivals in a losing game. 

That will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go : my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and 

farms ; 
They mix in one another's arms 

To one pure image of regret. 



IN MEMOKIAM. 



439 




We. leave the well-beloved place 
Where Jirst we gazed upon the skij.' 



On tliat last night before we went 

From out tlie doors where I was 

bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead, 

Which left my after-morn content. 



Metliouglit I dwelt within a hall. 

And maidens with me : distant 

hills 
From hidden summits fed with 
rills 
A river slidin»' bv the wall. 



440 



IX MEMORIAM. 



The hall with harp and carol rang. 
They sang of what is wise and 

good 
And graceful. In tlie centre 
stood 
A statue veil'd, to which the}" sang; 

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to 
me, 
The shape of liim I loved, and 

love 
For ever : then flew in a dove 
And brought a summons from the 
sea: 

And wlien they learnt that I must go 
They wept and wail'd, but led the 

way 
To where a little shallop lay 

At anchor in the flood below ; 

And on ^ay manj- a level mead, 

And shadowing bluff tliat made 

the banks, 
AVe glided winding imder ranks 

Of iris, and the golden reed ; 

And still as vaster grew the shore 
And roU'd the floods in grander 

space. 
The maidens gather'd strength 
and grace 
And presence, lordlier than before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, wax'd in every 

limb ; 
I felt the thews of Anakim, 

The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 

As one would sing the death of war, 
And one would chant the history' 
Of that great race, which is to 
be, 

And one the shaping of a star; 

Until the forward -creeping tides 

Began to foam, and we to draw 
From deep to deep, to where we 
saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there ci deck, 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on liis neck : 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 
Bewail'd their lot ; I did them 

wrong : 
" We served thee here," they said, 
" so long. 
And wilt thou leave us now behind ? " 

So rapt I was, they could not win 
An answer from my lips, but he 



Replying, " Enter likewise ye 
And go with us : " they enter'd in. 

And wliile the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud. 
We steer'd her toward a crimson 
cloud 

That landlike slept along the deep. 



Tlie time draws near the birth of 
Christ ; 

Tlie moon is hid, the night is still; 

A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below. 

That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast, 

That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound. 
In lands where not a memory 

strays, 
Nor landmark breathes of other 
days. 
But all is new unhallow'd ground. 



To-night ungather'd let us leave 

This laurel, let this holly stand: 
We live witliin the stranger's land. 

And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. 

Our fatlier's dust is left alone 

And silent under other snows : 
There in due time tiie woodbine 
blows, 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

Xo more shall wayward grief abuse 
Tlie genial hour with mask and 

mime ; 
For change of place, like growth 
of time, 
Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast. 
By which our lives are chiefly 

proved, 
A little spare the night I loved, 

And liokl it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor, 

Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient 
form 
Thro' wliich the spirit breathes no 
more ? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast \ 
Xor harp be touch'd, nor flute be 

blown ; 
No dance, no motion, save alone 

What lightens in the lucid east 



IN MEMORIAM. 



441 



Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 
Long sleeps the summer in the 

seed; 
Run out your measured arcs, and 
lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 



Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

Ring, happy bells, across the 

snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no 

more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and 
poor, 
Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the 
times; 
^ Ring out, ring out my mournful 

rhymes. 
But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

King out false pride in place and 
/ blood, 

' The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out tlie narrowing lust of 
gold; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 

The larger heart, the kindlier 

hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

CVII. 

It is the day when he was born, 
A bitter day that early sank 
Behind a purple-frosty bank 

Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 
To deck the banquet. Fiercely 
flies 



The blast of North and East, and 
ice 
Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves. 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 
Above the wood which grides and 
clangs 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns 



Together, in the drifts that pass 
To darken on the rolling brine 
That breaks the coast. But fetch 
the wine, 

Arrange the board and brim the glass ; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie. 
To make a solid core of heat ; 
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 

Of all things ev'n as he were by ; 

• 

We keep the day. With festal cheer, 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him, whate'er he be. 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 



I will not shut me from my kind, 
And, lest I stiffen iuto stone, 
I will not eat my heart alone, 

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

What profit lies in barren faith. 

And vacant yearning, tho' with 

might 
To scale the heaven's highest 
height, 
Or dive below the wells of Death ? 

What find I in the highest place. 

But mine own phantom chanting 

hymns ? 
And on the depths of death there 
swims 
The reflex of a human face. 

I'll rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies : 
'Tis held that sorrow makes us 
wise. 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 



Heart-afiluence in discursive talk 

From household fountains never 

dry; 
The critic clearness of an eye. 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk ; 

Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of 
man; 

Impassion'd logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course ; 



442 



lA' MEMORIAM. 



High nature amorous of the good, 
But touch'd with no ascetic 

-gloom ; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt. 
Of freedom in her regal seat 
Of England ; not the schoolboy 
heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt ; 

And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the child would 

twine 
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine, 

And find his comfort in thy face ; 

All these have been, and thee mine 
eyes 
Have look'd on: if they look'd 

in vain, • 

My shame is greater who remain, 
Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 



Thy converse drew us with delight. 
The men of rathe and riper years : 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung. 

The proud was half disarm'd of 

pride, 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert by. 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen 
fool 

Was sof ten'd, and he knew not why ; 

While I, thy nearest, sat apart, 

And felt thy triumph was as mine; 
And loved them more, that they 
were thine. 

The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 

Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, 
But mine the love that will not 

tire. 
And, born of love, the vague 
desire 
That spurs an imitative will. 



The churl in spirit, up or down 

Along the scale of ranks, thro' all. 
To him who grasps a golden ball, 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
His want in forms for fashion's 
sake, 



Will let his coltish nature break 
At seasons thro' the gilded pale : 

For who can always act ? but he. 

To whom a thousand memories 

call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be. 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and 
join'd 
Each ofiice of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite. 
Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the exi^rcssion of an eye. 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 

The grand old name of gentleman, 
Defamed by every charlatan. 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 



High wisdom holds my wisdom less. 
That I, who gaze with temperate 

eyes 
On glorious insufficiencies. 

Set light by narrower perfectness. 

But thou, that fiUest all the room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou ? some novel 
power 
Sprang up for ever at a touch. 
And hope could never hope too 
much, 
In watching thee from hour to hour. 

Large elements in order brought. 

And tracts of calm from tempest 

made. 
And Avorld-wid e fluctuation sway 'd 

In vassal tides that foUow'd thought, 

CXIII. 

'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise ; 

Yet how much wisdom sleeps 
with thee 

Which not alone had guided me. 
But served the seasons that may rise ; 

For can I doubt, who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have 
been : 

A life in civic action warm, 

A soul on highest mission sent. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



443 



A potent voice' of Parliament, 
A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

Should licensed boldness gather force, 
Becoming, when the time has 

birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course, 

With thousand shocks that come and 

go, 
With agonies, with energies, 
With overthrowings, and with 

cries, 
And undulations to and fro. 

cxiv. 
Who loves not Knowledge ? Who 
shall rail 
Against her beauty ? May she 

mix 
With men and prosper ! Who 
shall fix 
Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire : 

She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance. 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and 
faith. 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of Demons % fiery-hot to burst 

All barriers in her onward race 
For power. Let her know her 
place ; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain ; and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With wisdom, like the younger child : 

For she is earthly of the mind, 

But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
0, friend, who earnest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee, 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and 
hour 

In reverence and in charity. 



Now fades the last long streak of snow. 
Now burgeons every maze of 

quick 
About the flowering squares, and 
thick 
By ashen roots the violets blow. 



Now rings the woodland loud and long. 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the 

vale. 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea ; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 

In yonder greening gleam, and fly 

The happy birds, that change 

their sky 

To build and brood ; that live their 

lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my re- 
gret 
Becomes an Ai^ril violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

cxvi. 
Is it, then, regret for buried time 

That keenlier in sweet April 

wakes. 
And meets the year, and gives 
and takes 
The colors of the crescent prime 1 

Not all : the songs, the stirring air, 
The life re-orient out of dust. 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten 
trust 

In that which made the world so fair. 

Not all regret : the face will shine 
Upon me, while I muse alone ; 
And that dear voice, I once have 
known. 

Still speak to me of me and mine : 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

For days of happy commune 

dead ; 
Less yearning for the friendship 
fled. 
Than some strong bond which is to be. 



days and hours, your work is this 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace, 

For fuller gain of after bliss : 

That out of distance might ensue 

Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 
And unto meeting when we meet, 

Delight a hundredfold accrue. 

For every grain of sand that runs. 
And every span of shade that 
steals. 



444 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And every kiss of toothed wheels. 
And all the courses of the suns. 



Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youth ; 
Nor dream of human love and 
truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
For ever nobler ends. They say, 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming-random 

forms, 
The seeming prey of cyclic 
storms, 
Till at the last arose the man ; 

Who throve and branch'd from clime 
to clime, 
The herald of a higher race, 
And of himself in higher place, 

If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 
Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, 
and show 

That life is not as idle ore, 

But iron dug from central gloom. 

And heated hot with burning 

fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears, 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling Faun, the sensual 

feast; 
Move upward, working out the 
beast. 
And let the ape and tiger die. 



Doors, where my heart was used to 
beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more; the city sleeps; 

I smell the meadow in the street ; 

I hear a chirp of birds ; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long- 
withdrawn 
A light-blue lane of early dawn. 

And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, 
And bright the friendship of 
thine eye; 



And in my thoughts with scarce 
a sigh 
I take the pressure of thine hand. 



I trust I have not wasted breath : 
I think we are not wholly brain. 
Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain. 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with 
Death ; 

Not only cunning casts in clay : 

Let Science prove we are, and 

then 
What matters Science unto men, 

At least to me 1 I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 
Hereafter, up from childhood 

shape 
His action like the greater ape, 

But I was horn to other things. 



cxxi. 
Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun 

And ready, thou, to die with him. 
Thou watchest all things ever 
dim 
And dimmer, and a glory done : 

The team is loosen'd from the wain. 
The boat is drawn upon the shore ; 
Thou listenest to the closing door. 

And life is darken'd in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, 
By thee the world's great work is 

heard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird ; 
i Behind thee comes the greater light : 

The market boat is on the stream, 
And voices hail it from the 

brink ; 
Thou hear'st the village hammer 
clink. 
And see'st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 

For what is one, the first, the last. 

Thou, like my present and my 

past, 

Thy place is changed ; thou art the 

same. 

CXXII. 

Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then. 
While I rose up against my doom. 
And yearn'd to burst the folded 
gloom, 

To bare the eternal Heavens again. 

To feel once more, in placid awe, 
The strong imagination roll 



IN MEMORIAM. 



445 



A sphere of stars about my soul, 
In all her motion one with law ; 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now, 
And enter in at breast and brow. 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave. 

Be quicken'd with a livelier breath. 
And like an inconsiderate boy. 
As in the former flash of joy, 

I slip the thoughts of life and death ; 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows, 
And every dew-drop paints a bow, 
The wizard lightnings deeply 
glow. 

And every thought breaks out a rose, 

CXXIII. 

There rolls the deep where grew the 
tree. 
O earth, what changes hast thou 

seen ! 
There where the long street roars, 
hath been 
The stillness of the central sea. 

Tlie hills are shadows, and they flow 
From form to foi'm, and nothing 

stands ; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands. 
Like clouds tliey shape themselves 
and go. 

But in ray spirit will I dwell. 

And dream my dream, and hold 

it true ; 
Fortho' my lips may breathe adieu, 

I cannot think the thing farewell. 



That which we dare invoke to bless ; 
Our dearest faith; our ghastliest 

doubt ; 
He, They, One, All ; within, with- 
out; 
The Power in darkness whom we 
guess ; 

I foimd Him not in world or sun, 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; 
Nor thro' the questions men may 
try, 

Tlie petty cobwebs we have spun : 

If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, 
I lieard a voice " believe no more " 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep ; 

A warmth within the breast would 
melt 
The freezing reason's colder part, 



And like a man in wrath the 
heart 
Stood up and answer'd " I have felt." 

No, like a child in doubt and fear : 
But that blind clamor made me 

wise ; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

But, crying, knows his father near ; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the 
hands 
That reach thro' nature, moulding 
men. 



"Whatever I have said or sung. 

Some bitter notes my harp would 

give, 
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to 
live 
A contradiction on the tongue. 

Yet Hope had never lost her youth ; 
She did but look through dimmer 

eyes ; 
Or Love but play'd with gracious 
lies, 
Because he felt so fix'd in truth : 

And if the song were full of care, 

He breathed the spirit of the song ; 
And if the words were sweet and 
strong 

He set his royal signet there ; 

Abiding witli me till I sail 

To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 



Love is and was my Lord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend, 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
Within liis court on earth, and 
sleep 

Encompass'd by his faithful guard. 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to 

place, 
And whispers to the worlds of 
space. 
In the deep night, that all is well. 

CXXVII. 

And all is well, tho' faith and form 
Be sunder'd in the night of fear ; 



446 



IN MEMOKIAM. 



Well roars the storm to those that 
hear 
A deeper voice across the storm, 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread, 
And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again 
Tlie red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile lier barricades with dead. 

But ill for hiin that wears a crown, 
And liini, the lazar, in his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining 
crags ; 

The spires of ice are topi^led down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 
The fortress crashes from on high. 
The brute earth lightens to the 

sky, 
And the great ^on sinks in blood, 

And compass'd by the fires of Hell; 

AYhile thou, dear spirit, happy 
star, 

O'erlook'st the tumult from afar. 
And smilest, knowing all is well. 



The love that rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied Avhen he met with 

Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 

Of onward time shall yet be made, 
And throned races may degi'ade ; 

Yet O ye mj'steries of good, 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and 
Fear, 
If all your oflice had to do 
With old results that look like 
new ; 
If this were all your mission here. 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword. 
To fool the crowd with glorious 

lies, 
To cleave a creed in sects and 
cries, 
To change the bearing of a Mord, 

To shift an arbitrary power. 

To cramj) the student at his desk. 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower ; 

AVhythen myscorn mightwell descend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art. 

Is toil coijperant to an end. 



Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near in woe and weal ; 



loved the most, when most I feel C 
There is a lower and a higher ; ) 

Known and unknown ; human, divine ; 
Sweet human hand and lips and 

eye; 
Dear heavenly friend that canst 
not die, , 

Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ; \ 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be ; 

Loved deeplier, dai'klier under- 
stood; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good, 
And mingle all the world with thee. i^^_ 

cxxx. 
Thy voice is on, the rolling air ; 

1 hear tiiee where the waters run ; 
Thou standest in the rising sun, 

And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less : 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature 
thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 

CXXXI. 

O living will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer 

shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock. 
Flow tliro' our deeds and make them 
pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trust. 

With faith that comes of self-control. 
The truths that never can be 

proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



true and tried, so well and long, 
Demand not thou a marriage lay ; 
In that it is thy marriage day 

Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 

Since first he told me that he 
loved 



IN MEMORIAM. 



447 



A daughter of our house ; nor 
proved 
Since that dark day a day like this ; 

The' I since then have number'd o'er 
Some thrice tliree years: they went 

and came, 
Remade tlie blood and changed 
the fame, 
And yet is love not less, but more ; 

No longer caring to embalm 

In dying songs a dead regret, 
But like a statue solid-set, 

And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 

Than in the summers that are 

flown, 
For I myself with these have 
grown 
To something greater than before ; 

Which makes appear the songs I 
made 
As echoes out of weaker times, 
As half but idle brawling rhymes. 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal flower, 
That must be made a wife ere 

noon ? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower : 

On me she bends her blissful eyes 

And then on thee ; they meet thy 

look 
And brighten like the star that 
shook 
Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

when her life was yet in bud. 

He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she §jrew, for thee she 
grows ' 

For ever, and as fair as good. 

And thou art worthy ; full of power ; 
As gentle; liberal-minded, great, 
Consistent; wearing all that 
weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But now set out : the noon is near. 
And I must give away the bride ; 
She fears not, or with thee 
beside 

And me behind her, will not fear. 

For I that danced her on my knee, 
That watch'd her on her nurse's 

arm, 
That shielded all her life from 
harm 
At last must i>art with her to thee ; 



Now waiting to be made a wife. 

Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; 
Their pensive tablets round her 
head. 

And the most living words of life 

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 
The " wilt thou " answer'd, and 

again 
The " wilt thou " ask'd, till out of 
twain 
Her sweet " I will " has made you one. 

Now sign your names, which shall be 
read, 
Mute symbols of a joyful morn. 
By village eyes as yet unborn ; 

The names are sign'd, and overhead 

Begins the clash and clang that tells 
The joy to every wandering 

breeze ; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the 
trees 
The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour, and happier hours 

Await thern. Many a merry face 
Salutes them — maidens of the 
place. 

That pelt us in the jjorch with flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I 

gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass 
the grave 
That has to-day its sunnj^ side. 

To-day the grave is bright for me, 
For them the light of life in- 
creased. 
Who stay to share the morning 
feast. 
Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 

To meet and greet a whiter sun ; 
My drooping memory will not 
shun 

The foaming grape of eastern France. 

It circles round, and fancy plays. 

And hearts are warm'd and faces 

bloom. 
As drinking health to bride and 
groom 
We wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest. 
Perchance, perchance, among the 
rest. 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 



448 



AV MEMORIAM. 



But they must go, the time draws on, 
And those white-favor'd horses 

wait ; 
They rise, but linger ; it is late ; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 

From little cloudlets on the grass, 
But sweeps away as out we pass 

To range the woods, to roam the park. 

Discussing how their courtship grew. 
And talk of others that are wed, 
And how she look'd, and what he 
said. 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee. 
The shade of passing thought, 

the wealth 
Of words and wit, the double 
health. 
The crowning cup, the three-times- 
three, 

And last the dance ; — till I retire : 
Dumb is that tower which spake 

so loud, 
And high in heaven the stream- 
ing cloud, 
And on the downs a rising fire : 

And rise, moon, from yonder down. 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the shining vapor sail 

And pass the silent-lighted town, 

The white-faced halls, the glancing 
rills, 
And catch at every mountain 
head, 



And o'er the friths that branch 
and spread 
Their sleeping silver thro' the hills; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors. 
With tender gloom the roof, the 

wall ; 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds. 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the 
vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 

And, moved thro' life of lower phase, 
Result in man, be born and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 
On knowledge ; under whose com- 
mand 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their 
hand 
Is Nature like an open book; 

No longer half-akin to brute, 

For all we thought and loved and 

did, 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but 
seed 
Of what in them is flower and fruit ; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe, 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves, 
One God, one law, one element, 
And one far-off divine event, 

To which the whole creation moves. 



QUEElSr MART 



A DRx^^MA. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Queen Mart. 

Philip, King of Naples and Sicili/, afterwards King of Spain. 

The Pbincess Elizabeth. 

Reginald Pole, Cardinal and Papal Legate. 

Simon Renard, Spanish Ambassador. 

Le Sieur de Noailles, French Ambassador. 

Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Sir Nicholas Kexth, Archbishop of York; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner. 

Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. 

Lord William Howard, afterwards Lord Howard, and Lord High Admiral, 

Lord Williams of Thame. Lord Paget. Lord Petre. 

Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor. 

Edmund Bonner, Bishop of London. Thomas Thirlby, Bishop of Ely. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt \ r t- t j 

c rr. o r insurrectionarij Leaders. 

Sir Thomas Stafford J ■^ 

Sir Ralph Bagenhall. Sir Robert Southwell. 

Sir Henry Bedingfield. Sir William Cecil. 

Sir Thomas White, Lord Mayor of London. 

The Duke of Alva 1 ,, ,• r,,-.- 

The Count de Feria f ««««^"'i? «« P^^^- 

Peter Martyr. Father Cole. Father Bourne. 

Villa Garcia. Soto. 

Captain Brett \ a ji * ^ ir^ « 

, T' } Adherents of W iiatt, 

Anthony Knyvett ) •' •' 

Peters, Gentleman of Lord Howard. 

Roger, Servant to JVbailles. William, Servant to Wyatt. 

Steward of Household to the Princess Elizabeth. 

Old Nokes and Nokes. 

Marchioness of Exeter, Mother of Courtenay. 

Lady Clarence \ t t ■ irr •^- ^ ^i /-i 

-r TIT -rw > Ladies in Wattir to the Queen. 

Lady Magdalen Dacres ) ^ 

Alice. 

Maid of Honor to the Princess Elizabeth. 

rp > two Country Wives. 

Lords and other Attendants, Members of the Privy Council, Members of 
Parliament, Two Gentlemen, Aldermen, Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, 
Messengers, Guards, Pages, Gospellers, Marshalmen, etg. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. — Aldgate richly 
decorated. 

Crowd. Marshalmen. 

Marshalman. Stand back, keep a 
clear lane ! When will her Majesty 
pass, sayst thou ? why now, even 
now; wherefore draw back your 
heads and your horns before I break 



them, and make what noise you will 
with your tongues, so it be not trea- 
son. Long live Queen Mary, the law- 
ful and legitimate daughter of Harry 
the Eighth ! Shout, knaves ! 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 

First Citizen. That's a hard word, 
legitimate ; what does it mean 1 

Second Citizen. It means a bastard. 

Third Citizen. Nay, it means true- 
born. 

First Citizen. Why, didn't the Par- 
liament make her a bastard ? 



450 



QUEEN MARY. 



Second Citizen. No ; it was the Lady 
Elizabeth. 

Third Citizen. That was af tei', man ; 
that was after. 

First Citizen. Then whicli is the 
bastard ? 

Second Citizen. Troth, they be both 
bastards by Act of Parliament and 
Council. 

Third Citizen. Ay, the Parliament 
can make every true-born man of us 
a bastard. Old Nokes, can't it make 
thee a bastard ? thou shouldst know, 
for thou art as white as three Christ- 
masses. 

Old Nokes {dreamili/). Who's a-pass- 
ing ? King Edward or King Richard ? 

Third Citizen. No, old Nokes. 

Old Nokes. It's Harry ! 

Third Citizen. It's Queen Mary. 

Old Nokes. The blessed Mary's a- 
passing ! [Falls on his knees. 

Nokes. Let father alone, my mas- 
ters ! he's past your questioning. 

Third Citizen. Answer thou for 
him, then ! thou'rt no such cockei'el 
thyself, for thou was born i' the tail 
end of old Harry the Seventh. 

Nokes. Ell ! that was afore bastard- 
making began. I was born true man 
at five in the forenoon i' the tail of 
old Harry, and so they can't make 
me a bastard. 

Third Citizen. But if Parliament 
can make the Queen a bastard, why, 
it follows all the more that they can 
make thee one, who art fray'd i' the 
knees, and out at the elbow, and bald 
o' the back, and bursten at the toes, 
and down at heels. 

Nokes. I was born of a true man 
and a ring'd wife, and I can't argue 
upon it ; but I and my old woman 'ud 
burn upon it, that would we. 

Marshalman. What are you cack- 
ling of bastardy under the Queen's 
own nose 1 I'll have you flogg'd and 
burnt too, by the Rood I will. 

First Citizen. He swears by the 
Rood. Whew ! 

Second Citizen. H4rk! the trumpets. 
[^Tlie Procession passes, Mary and 
Elizabeth riding side by side, and 
disappears under the gate. 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 

down with all traitors ! God save her 

Grace ; and death to Northumberland ! 

[Exeimti 

Manent Two Gentlemen. 

First Gentleman. By God's light a 
noble creature, right royal! 

Second Gentleman. She looks come- 
lier than ordinary to-day; but to my 



mind the Lady Elizabeth is the more 
noble and royal. 

First Gentleman. I mean the Lady 
Elizabeth. Did you hear (I have a 
daughter in her service who reported 
it) that she met the Queen at Wan- 
stead with five hundred horse, and the 
Queen (tho' some say they be much 
divided) took her hand, call'd her 
sweet sister, and kiss'd not her alone, 
but all tiie ladies of her following. 

Second Gentleman. Ay, that was in 
her hour of joy ; there will be plenty 
to sunder and unsister them again : 
this Gardiner for one, who is to be 
made Lord Chancellor, and will 
pounce like a wild beast out of his 
cage to worry Cranmer. 

First Gentleman. And furthermore, 
my daughter said that when there rose 
a talk of the late rebellion, she spoke 
even of Northumberland pitifully, and 
of tlie good Lady Jane as a poor inno- 
cent child who had but obeyed her 
father; and furthermore, she said that 
no one in her time should be burnt 
for heresy. 

Second Gentleman. Well, sir, I look 
for happy times. 

First Gentleman. There is but one 
thing against them. I know not if 
you know. 

Second Gentleman. I suppose you 
touch upon the rumor that Charles, 
the master of the world, has oflfer'd 
her his son Philip, the Pope and the 
Devil. I trust it is but a rumor. 

First Gentleman. She is going now 
to the Tower to loose the prisoners 
there, and among them Courtenay, to 
be made Earl of Devon, of royal 
blood, of splendid feature, whom the 
council and all her people wish her to 
marry. May it be so, for we are many 
of us Catholics, but few Papists, and 
the Hot Gospellers will go mad upon 
it. 

Second Gentleman. Was she not 
betroth'd in her babyhood to the 
Great Emperor himself ? 

First Gentleman. Ay, but he's too 
old. 

Second Gentleman. And again to her 
cousin Reginald Pole, now Cardinal ; 
but I hear that he top is full of aches 
and broken before his day. 

First Gentleman. O, the Pope could 
dispense with his Cardinalate, and his 
achage, and his breakage, if tliat were 
all : will you not follow the jn'oces- 
sion ? 

Second Gentleman. No ; I have seen 
enough for this day. 

Fir.^t Gentleman. Well, I shall fol- 
low ; if I can get near enough I shall 
judge with my own eyes whether her 



QUEEN MARY. 



451 



Grace incline to this splendid scion of 
Plantagenet. \_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
A Room in Lambeth Palace. 

Cranmer. To Strasburg, Antwerp, 

Frankfort, Zuricli, Worms, 
Geneva, Basle — our Bishops from 

their sees 
Or fled, they say, or flying — Poinet, 

Barlow, 
Bale, Scory, Coverdale ; besides the 

Deans 
Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and 

Wells — 
Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds 

more ; 
So they report : I shall be left alone. 
No : Hooper, Ridley, Latimer will not 
.fly. 

Enter Peter Martyr. 

Peter Martyr. Fly, Cranmer ! were 
there nothing else, your name 

Stands first of those wlio sign'd the 
Letters Patent 

That gave her royal crown to Lady 
Jane. 
Cranmer. Stand first it may, but it 
was written last : 

Those that are now her Privy Council, 
sign'd 

Before me : nay, the Judges had pro- 
nounced 

That our young Edward might be- 
queatli the crown 

Of EngLand, putting by his fatlicr's 
will. 

Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for 
me. 

The wan boy-king, %vith his fast-fading 
eyes 

Fixt hard on mine, his frail transpar- 
ent hand. 

Damp with the sweat of death, and 
griping mine, 

Whisper'd me, if I loved him, not to 
yield 

His Church of England to the Papal 
wolf 

And Mary ; then I could no more — 
I sign'd. 

Nay, for bare shame of inconsis- 
tency, 

She cannot pass her traitor council b}''. 

To make me headless. 

Peter Martjr. That might be for- 
given. 

I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not 
« own 

The bodily presence in the Eucharist, 

Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice : 

Your creed will be your death. 

Cranmer. Step after step. 



Thro' many voices crying right and 

left. 
Have I climb'd back into the primal 

church, 
And stand within the porch, and 

Christ with me : 
My flight were such a scandal to the 

faith, 
The downfall of so many simjile souls, 
I dare not leave my post. 

Peter Martyr. But you divorced 
Queen Catharine and her father ; 

hence, her hate 
Will burn till j'ou are burn'd. 

Cranmer. I cannot help it. 

The Canonists and Schoolmen were 

with me. 
"Thou shalt not wed thy brother's 

wife." — 'Tis written, 
"They shall be childless." True, 

Maiy was born, 
But France would not accept her for 

a bride 
As being born from incest ; and this 

wrought 
Upon the king; and child by child, 

you know. 
Were momentary sparkles out as 

quick 
Almost as kindled ; and he brought 

his doubts 
And fears to me. Peter, I'll swear 

for him 
He (lid believe the bond incestuous. 
But wherefore am I trenching on the 

time 
That should already have seen your 

steps a mile 
From me and Lambeth ? God be 

with you ! Go. 
Peter Martyr. Ah, but how fierce a 

letter you wrote against 
Their superstition when they slander'd 

you 
For setting up a mass at Canterbury 
To please the Queen. 

Cranmer. It was a wheedling monk 
Set up tlie mass. 

Peter Martyr. I know it, my good 

Lord. 
But youso bubbled overwith hot terms 
Of Satan, liars, blasi)liem3^. Anti- 
christ, 
She never will forgive you. Fly, my 

Lord, fly ! 
Cranmer. I wrote it, and God grant 

me power to burn ! 
Peter ]\fartyr. They have given me 

a safe conduct : for all that 
I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see 

you, 
Dear friend, for the last time ; fare- 
well, and fly. 
Cranmer. Fly and farewell, and let 

me die the death. 

{_E.xit Peter Martyr. 



452 



QUEEN MARY. 



Enter Old Servant. 

0, kind and gentle master, the Queen's 

Officers 
Are here in force to take you to the 
Tower. 
Cranmer. Ay, gentle friend, admit 
them. I will go. 
I thank my God it is too late to fly. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE III. — St. Paul's Cross. 

Father Bourne in the puIpH. A 
crowd. Marchioness of Exetki;, 

COURTENAY. The SlEUR DE 

NoAiLLES and his man Roger in 
front of the stage. Hubbub. 

Noailles. Hast thou let fall those 

papers in the palace "? 
Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. "There will be no peace 
for Mary till Elizabeth lose her head." 
Eager. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. And the other, " Long live 
Elizabeth the Queen ! " 

Roger. Ay, sir ; she needs must 

tread upon them. 
Noailles. Well. 

These beastly swine make such a 

grim ting here, 
I cannot catch what Father Bourne is 
saying. 
Roger. Quiet a moment, my mas- 
ters ; hear what the shaveling has to 
say for himself. 

Crowd. Hush — hear! 

Bourne. — and so this unhappy 

land, long divided in itself, and sever'd 

from the faith, will return into the one 

true fold, seeing that our gracious 

Virgin Queen hath 

Croic'd. No pope ! no pope ! 

Roger {to those about him, mimiching 

Bourne). — liath sent for the holy 

legate of the holy father the Pope, 

Cardinal Pole, to give us all that holy 

absolution which 

First Citizen. Old Bourne to the 

life ! 
Second Citizen. Holy absolution ! 

holy Inquisition ! 
Third Citizen. Down with the 
Pajiist ! 

{Hubbub. 
Bourne. — and now that your good 
bishop, Bonner, who hath lain so long- 
under bonds for the faith — [Hubbub. 
Noailles. Friend Poger, steal thou 
in among the crowd, 
And get the swine to sliout Elizabeth. 
Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as mid- 
winter, 
Begin with him. 

Roger (goes). By the mass, old 



friend, we'll have no pope here while 
the Lady Elizabeth lives. 

Gospeller. Art thou of the true faith, 
fellow, that swearest by the mass ? 

Roger. Ay, that am I, new con- 
verted, but the old leaven sticks to my 
tongue yet. 

First Citizen. He says right; by 
the mass we'll have no mass here. 

Voices of the crowd. Peace ! hear 
him ; let his own words damn the 
Papist. From thine own mouth I 
judge thee — tear him down ! 

Bourne. — and since our Gracious 
Queen, let me call her our second 
Virgin Mary, hath begun to re-edify 

the true temple 

First Citizen. Virgin Mary ! we'll 
have no virgins here — we'll have the 
Lady Elizabeth ! 

[Sivords are draicn, a knife is 
hurled and sticks in the pulpit. 
The mob throng to the pulpit 
stairs. 
Marchioness of Exeter. Son Courte- 
nay, wilt thou see the holy 
father 
Murdered before thy face "? up, son, 

and save him ! 
They love thee, and thou canst not 
come to harm. 
Courtenaij {in the ptdpit). Shame, 
shame, my masters ! are you 
English-born, 
And set yourselves by hundreds 
against one ? 
Crowd. ACourtenay! aCourtenay! 
[^1 train of Spanish servants crosses 
at the back of the stage. 
N^oailles. These birds of passage 
come before their time : 
Stave off the crowd upon the Spaniard 
there. 
Roger. My masters, yonder's fatter 
game for you 
Than this old gaping gurgoyle : look 

you there — 
The prince of Spain coming to wed 

our Queen ! 
After him, boys ! and pelt him from 
the city. 
\_Theg seize stones and folloiv the 
Spaniards. Exeunt on the other 
side Marchioness of E.xeter and 
Attendants. 
Noailles {to Roger). Stand from 
me. If Elizabeth lose her 
head — 
Tiiat makes for France. 
And if her people, anger'd thereupon, 
Arise against her and dethrone the 

(^ucen — 
That makes for France. 
And if I breed confusion anyway — 
That makes for France. 

Good-day, my Lord of Devon ; 



QUEEX MARY. 



453 



A bold heart yours to beard that rag- 
ing mob ! 
Courtenaij. My mother said, Go up ; 
and up I went. 
I knew they would not do me any 

wrong, 
For I am mighty popular with them, 
Noailles. 
Noailles. You look'd a king. 
Courtenai). Why not ? I am 

king's blood. 
Noailles. And in the whirl of change 

may come to be one. 
Courtenaij . Ah! 
Noailles. But does your gracious 

Queen entreat you kinglike i 
Courtenai/. 'Fore God, I think she 

entreats me like a child. 
Noailles. You've but a dull life in 
this maiden court, 
I fear, my Lord 1 

Courtenaij. A lifeof nodsandyawns. 
Noailles. So you would honor my 
poor house to-night, 
"We might enliven you. Divers honest 

fellows. 
The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from 

prison, 
Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas 

Wyatt, 
Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more 
— we play. 
Courtenai/. At what 1 
Noailles. The Game of Chess. 

Courtenai/. The Gani'e of Chess ! 
I can play well, and I shall beat you 
there. 
Noailles. Ay, but we play with 
Henry, King of France, 
And certain of liis court. 
His Higliness makes his moves across 

the Channel, 
We answer him with ours, and there 

are messengers 
That go between us. 

Courtenaij. Why, such a game, sir, 

were whole years a playing. 
Noailles. Nay ; not so long I trust. 
That all depends 
Upon the skill and swiftness of the 
players. 
Courtenai/. The King is skilful at 

it? 
Noailles. Very, my Lord. 

Courtenai/. And the stakes high ? 
Noailles. But not beyond your 

means. 
Courtenai/. Well, I'm the first of 

players. I shall win. 
Noailles. With our advice and in 
our company, 
And so you well attend to the king's 

moves, 
I think you may. 

Courtenay. When do you meet '. 
Noailles. To-nicrht. 



Courtenay (aside). I will be there; 
the fellow's at his tricks — 

Deep — I shall fathom him. (Aloud.) 
Good morning, Noailles. 

[_Exit Courtenay. 

Noailles. Good-day, my Lord. 

Strange game of chess ! a King 

That with her own pawns plays against 
a Queen, 

Whose pla}^ is all to find herself a 
King. 

Ay ; but this fine blue-blooded Courte- 
nay seems 

Too princely for a pawn. Call liini a 
Knight, 

That, with an ass's, not a horse's head, 

Skips every way, from levity or from 
fear. 

Well, we shall use him somehow, so 
that Gardiner 

And Simon Renard spy not out our 
game 

Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that 
anyone 

Suspected thee to be my man ■? 

Roger. Not one, sir. 

Noailles. No ! the disguise was per- 
fect. Let's away. [Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

LoNDOx. A Room ix the Palace. 

Elizabeth. Enter Courtenay. 

Courtenay. So yet am I, 
Unless my friends and mirrors lie to 

me,. 
A goodlier-looking fellow than this 

Philip. 
Pah ! 
The Queen is ill advised : shall I turn 

traitor 1 
They've almost talked me into it : yet 

the word 
Affrights me somewhat : to be such a 

one 
As Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in 

it. 
Good now, niy Lady Queen, tho' by 

your age, 
And by your looks you are not worth 

the having. 
Yet by your crown you are. 

\_Seeing Elizabeth. 
The Princess there 1 
If I tried her and la — she's amor- 
ous. 
Have we not heard of her in Edward's 

time. 
Her freaks and frolics with the late 

Lord Admiral ? 
I do believe she'd yield. I should be 

still 
A party in the state ; and then, wlio 

knows — 



454 



QUEEN MARY. 



Elizabeth. What are you musing on, 

iny Lord of Devon '. 
Courtenaii. Has not the Queen — 
Elizabeth. Done what, Sir ? 

Courtenay. — made j^ou follow 

The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Len- 
nox ? — 
You, 
The heir presumptive. 

Elizabeth. Wliy do you ask ? 3'ou 

know it. 
Coiirtenai/ . You needs must bear it 

hardly. 
Elizabeth. No, indeed ! 

I am utter!}' submissive to the 
Queen. 
Courteiiai/. "Well, I was musing up- 
on that ; the Queen 
Is both my foe and yours ; we should 
be friends. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, the hatred of 
another to us 
Is no true bond of friendship. 

Courtenai/. Might it not 

Be the rough preface of some closer 

bond ? 

Elizabeth. My Lord, you late were 

loosed from out the Tower, 

Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis, 

You spent your life ; that broken, out 

you flutter 
Thro' the neAV world, go zigzag, now 

would settle 
Upon this flower, now that ; but all 

things here 
At court are known ; you have solicited 
The Queen, and been rejected. 

Courtenay. Flower, she! 

Half faded ! but you, cousin, are fresh 

and sweet 
As the first flower no bee has ever 
tried. 
Elizabeth. Are you the bee to try 
me ? why, but now 
I called you butterfly. 

Courtenay. You did me wrong, 

I love not to be called a butterfly : 
AVhy do you call me butterfly ? 

Elizabeth. Why do you go so gay 

then t 
Courtenay. Velvet and gold. 

This dress was made me as the Earl 

of Devon 
To take my seat in ; looks it not right 
royal ? 
Elizabeth. So royal that the Queen 

forbad you wearing it. 
Courtenay. I wear it then to spite 

her. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, my Lord ; 

I see you in tlie Tower again. Her 

Majesty 
Hears you affect the Prince — prelates 
kneel to you. — 
Courtenay. I am the noblest blood 
in Europe, Madam, 



A Courtenay of Devon, and her 
cousin. 
Elizabeth. She hears you make 
your boast that after all 
She means to wed you. Folly, my 
good Lord. 
Courtenay. How folly 1 a great 
party in the state 
W^ills me to wed her. 

Elizabeth. Failing her, my Lord, 
Doth not as great a party in the 

state 
Will you to wed me 1 

Courtenay. Even so, fair lady. 

Elizabeth. You know to flatter 

ladies. 
Courtenay. Nay, I meant 

True matters of the heart. 

Elizabeth. My heart, my Lord, 

Is no great party in the state as yet. 
Courtenay. Great, said you 1 nay, 
you shall be great. I love you. 
Lay my life in your hands. Can you 
be close 1 
Elizabeth. Can you, my Lord 1 
Courtenay. Close as a miser's casket. 
Listen : 
The King of France, Noailles the 

Ambassador, 
The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter 

Carew, 
Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some 

others. 
Have sworn this Spanish marriage 

shall not be. 
If Mary will not hear us — well — 

conjecture — 
Were I in Devon with my wedded 

bride, 
The people there so worship me — 

Your ear ; 
You shall be Queen. 

Elizabeth. You speak too low, 

my Lord ; 
I cannot hear jou. 

Courtenay. I'll repeat it. 

Elizabeth. No ! 

Stand further off, or j-ou may lose 
your head. 
Courtenay. I have a head to lose 

for your sweet sake. 
Elizabeth. Have you, my Lord ? 
Best keep it for your own. 
Nay, pout not, cousin. 
Not many friends are mine, except 

indeed 
Among the many. I believe you 

mine ; 
And so you may continue mine, fare- 
well, 
And that at once. 

Enter Mary, behind. 

Mary. Whispering — leagued to- 
gether 



QUEEN MARY 



455 



To bar mc fi'om my Philip. 

Courteno ij . Pray — consider — 

Elizabeth {seeing the Queen). Well, 

that's a noble horse of yours, 

my Lord. 

I trust that lie will carry you well 

to-day, 
And heal your headache' 

Courteno IJ. You are wild; what 
headache ? 
Heartache, perchance ; not headache. 
Elizabeth (aside to Courtenay.) Are 

you blind 'i 
[Courtenay sees the Queen and exit. 
Exit Mary. 

Enter Lord William Howard. 

Howard. Was that my Lord of 

Devon ? do not you 
Be seen in corners with my Lord of 

Devon. 
He hatli fallen out of favor with the 

Queen. 
She fears the Lords may side with 

you and him 
Against her marriage ; therefore is he 

dangerous. 
And if this Prince of fluff and feather 

come 
To woo you, niece, he is dangerous 

everyway. 
Elizabeth. Not very dangerous that 

way, my good uncle. 
Howard. But your own state is full 

of danger here. 
The disaffected, heretics, reformers. 
Look to you as the one to crown their 

ends. 
IVtix not yourself with any plot I pray 

you; 
Nay, if by chance you hear of any such, 
Speak not thereof — no, not to your 

best friend, 
tiest you should be confounded with 

it. Still — 
Perinde ac cadaver — as the priest 

says, 
You know your Latin — quiet as a 

dead body. 
What was my Lord of Devon telling 

you? 
Elizabeth. Whether he told me any- 
thing or not, 
I follow your good counsel, gracious 

uncle. 
Quiet as a dead body. 

Howard. You do right well. 

I do not care to know ; but this I 

charge you. 
Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord 

Chancellor 
(I count it as a kind of virtue in him. 
He hath not many), as a mastiff dog 
May love a puppy cur for no more 

reason 



Than that the twain have been tied 

up together, 
Thus Gardiner — for the two were 

fellow-prisoners 
So many years in yon accursed 

Tower — 
Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look 

to it, niece. 
He hath no fence when Gardiner 

questions him ; 
All oozes out; yet him — because 

they know him 
The last White Rose, the last Plan- 

tagenet 
(Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the 

people 
Claim as their natural leader — ay, 

some say, 
That you shall marry him, make him 

King belike. 
Elizabeth. Do they say so, good 

uncle ■? 
Howard. Ay, good niece ! 

You should be plain and open with 

me, niece. 
You should not play upon me. 

Elizabeth. No, good uncle. 

Enter Gardiner. 

Gardiner. Tlie Queen would see 

your Grace upon the moment. 
Elizabeth. Why, my loi'd Bishop ? 
Gardiner. I think she means to 
counsel your withdrawing 
To Ashridge, or some other country 
house. 
Elizabeth. Why, my lord Bishop 1 
Gardiner. I do but bring the mes- 
sage, know no more. 
Your Grace will hear her reasons 
from herself. 
Elizabeth. 'Tis mine own wish ful- 
fiU'd before the word 
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant 

to crave 
Permission of her Highness to retire 
To Ashridge, and pursue my studies 
there. 
Gardiner. Madam, to have the wish 
before the word 
Is man's good Fairy — and the Queen 

is yours. 
I left her with rich jewels in her hand, 
Whereof 'tis like enough she means 

to make 
A farewell present to your Grace. 

Elizabeth. My Lord, 

I have the jewel of a loyal heart. 

Gardiner. I doubt it not, Madam, 

■ most loyal. \^Bows low and exit. 

Howard. « See, 

This comes of parleying with my Lord 

of Devon. 
Well, well, you must obej' ; and I mv- 
self 



456 



QUEEN MARY. 



Believe it will be better for your wel- 
fare. 
Your time will come. 

Elizabeth. I think my time will 

come. 
Uncle, 

I am of sovereign nature, that I know, 
Not to be quell'd; and I have felt 

within me 
Stirrings of some great doom when 

God's just hour 
Peals — but tliis fierce old Gardiner 

— his big baldness, 
That irritable forelock which he rubs. 
His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd 

eyes 
Half fright me. 

Howard. You've a bold heart ; keep 

it so. 
He cannot touch you save that you 

turn traitor ; 
And so take heed I praj' you — you 

are one 
Who love that men should smile up- 
on you, niece. 
They'd smile you into treason — some 

of them. 
Elizabeth. I spy the rock beneath 

the smiling sea. 
But if this Philip, the proud Catholic 

jirince. 
And tliis bald priest, and she that 

hates me, seek 
In that lone house, to practise on my 

life, 
By poison, fire, shot, stab — 

Howard. They Avill not, niece. 

Mine is the fleet and all the power at 

sea — 
Or will be in a moment. If they dared 
To harm you, I would blow this Philip 

and all 
Your trouble to the dogstar and the 

devil. 
Elizabeth. To the Pleiads, uncle; 

they have lost a sister. 
Howard. But why say that '( what 

have you done to lose her ? 
Come, come, I will go with you to the 

Queen. [Exeunt. 



SCENE V. 

A EooM IN THE Palace. 

Mary with Philip's miniature. Alice. 

Mary [kissiyig the miniature). Most 
goodly. Kinglike and an Em- 
peror's son, — 
A king to be, — is he ^lot noble, girl ? 
Alice. Goodly enough, your Grace, 
and yet, methinks, 
I have seen goodlier. 

Mary. Ay ; some waxen doll 



Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike ; 
All red and white, the fashion of our 

land. 
But my good mother came (God rest 

her soul) 
Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself. 
And in my likings. 

xilice. By your Grace's leave 

Your royal mother came of Spain, 

but took 
To the English red and white. Your 

royal father 
(For so they say) was all pure lily and 

rose 
In his youth, and like a lady. 

Mary. (,), just God ! 

Sweet mother, you had time and cause 

enough 
To sicken of his lilies and his roses. 
Cast off, betray "d, defamed, divorced, 

forlorn ! 
And then the King — that traitor i:)ast 

forgiveness. 
The false archbishop fawning on him, 

married 
The mother of Elizabeth — a heretic 
Ev'n as glie is ; but God hath sent me 

here 
To take such order with all heretics 
That it sliall be, before I die, as tho' 
]My father and my brother had not 

lived. 
What wast thou saying of this Lady 

Jane 
Now in the Tower '? 

Alice. Why, Madam, she was pass- 
ing 
Some chaijel down in Essex, and with 

her 
Lady Anne Wharton, and the Ladj- 

Anne 
Bow'd to the Pyx ; but Lady Jane 

stood up 
Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. 
And wherefore bow ye not, says Lad}* 

Anne, 
To him within there who made Heav- 
en and Earth ? 
I cannot, and I dare not, tell your 

Grace 
What Lady Jane replied. 

Mary. I3ut I will have it. 

Alice. She said — pray pardon me, 

and pity lier — 
She hath hcarkcn'd evil counsel — ah ! 

she said, 
The baker made him. 

Mary. ilonstrous ! blasphemous ! 
She ought to burn. Hence, thou (Exit 

Alice). No — being traitor 
Her head will fall : shall it ? she is 

but a child. 
We do not kill the child for doing 

that 
His father whijit him into doing — a 

head 



QUEEN AIARY. 



457 



So full of grace and beauty ! would 

that mine 
Were half as gracious ! 0, my lord 

to be, 
My love, for thy sake only. 
I am eleven years older than he is. 
But will he care f(jr that ? 
IS;,o, by the holy Virgin, being noble, 
But love me only : then the bastard 

sprout, 
My sister, is far fairer than mj'self . 
Will he be drawn to iier 7 
No, being of tlie true faith witli myself. 
Paget is for him — for to wed with 

Spain 
Would treble England — Gardiner is 

against him ; 
The Council, people. Parliament 

against him ; 
But I will have him ! My hard fa- 

' ther hated me ; 
My brother rather hated me than 

loved ; 
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy 

Virgin, 
Plead with thy blessed Son ; grant 

me my prayer : 
Give me mj' Philip ; and we two will 

lead 
The living waters of the Faith again 
Back thro' their widow'd channel 

here, and watch 
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as 

of old. 
To heaven, and kindled with the 

palms of Christ ! 

Enter Ushek. 

Who waits, sir ? 

Usher. Madam, the Lord Chan- 
cellor. 
Mary. Bid him come in. {Enter 
Gardiner.) Good morning, 
my good Lord. [Exit Usher. 
Gardiner. That every morning of 
your Majesty 

May be most good, is every morning's 
prayer 

Of your most loyal subject, Stephen 
Gardiner. 
Mary. Come you to tell me this, 

my Lord ? 
Gardiner. And more. 

Your people have begun to learn your 
worth. 

Your pious wish to pay King Ed- 
ward's debts. 

Your lavish household curb'd, and the 
remission 

Of half that subsidy levied on the 
people, 

Make all tongues praise and all hearts 
beat for you. 

I'd have you yet more loved : the 
realm is poor, 



The exciiequer at neap-tide : we might 
withdraw 

Part of our garrison at Calais. 

Mary. Calais ! 

Our one point on the main, the gate 
of France ! 

I am Queen of England ; take mine 
eyes, mine heart. 

But do not lose me Calais. 

Gardiner. Do not fear it. 

Of that hereafter. I say your Grace 
is loved. 

That I may keep you thus, who am 
your friend 

And ever faithful coimsellor, might I 
sjieak 1 
Mary. I can forespeak your speak- 
ing. Would I marry 

Prince Philip, if all England hate 
him 1 That is 

Your question, and I front it with an- 
other : 

Is it England, or a party ? Now, your 
answer. 
Gardiner. My answer is, I wear be- 
neath my dress 

A shirt of mail : my house hath been 
assaulted. 

And when I walk abroad, the popu- 
lace. 

With fingers pointed like so many 
" daggers. 

Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and 
Philip ; 

And when I sleep, a hundred men-at- 
arms 

Guard my poor dreams for England. 
Men would murder me, 

Because they think me favorer of this 
marriage. 
Mary. And that were hard upon 

you, my Lord Chancellor. 
Gardiner. But our j^oung Earl of 

Devon — 
Mary. Earl of Devon ? 

I freed him from the Tower, jilaced 
him at Court ; 

I made him Earl of Devon, and — the 
fool — 

He wrecks his health and wealth on 
courtesans. 

And rolls himself in carrion like a 
dog. 
Gardiner. More like a school-boy 
that hath broken bounds. 

Sickening himself with sweets. 

Mary. I will not hear of him. 

Good, then, they will revolt : but I am 
Tudor, 

And shall control them. 

Gardiner. I will help you. Madam, 

Even to the utmost. All the church 
is grateful. 

You have ousted the mock priest, re- 
puliiited 



45S 



QUEEN MARY. 



The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the 

rood again, 
And brouglit us back the mass. I am 

all thanks 
To God and to your Grace : yet I 

know well, 
Your people, and I go with them so 

far. 
Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard 

here to play 
The tyrant, or in commonwealth or 
church. 
Mar II (showing the picture). Is this 
the face of one who plays the 
tyrant 1 
Peruse it; is it not goodly, ay, and 
gentle ? 
Gardiner: Madam, methinks a cold 
face and a haughty. 
And when your Highness talks of 

Courtenay — 
Ay, true — a goodly one. I would 

his life 
"Were half as goodly (aside). 

Mary. What is that you mutter ? 
Gardiner. Oh, Madam, take it 
bluntly ; marry Philip, 
And be stepmother of a score of 

sons ! 
The prince is known in Spain, in 

Flanders, ha ! 
Por Philip — 

Mary. You offend us ; you may 
leave lis. 
You see thro' warping glasses. 

Gardiner. If your Majesty — 

Mary. I have sworn ujion the body 
and blood of Christ 
I'll none but Philip. 

Gardiner. Hath your Grace so 

sworn 1 
Mary. Ay, Simon Renard knows it. 
Gardiner. News to me ! 

It then remains for your poor Gardi- 
ner, 
So you still care to trust him some- 
what less 
Than Simon Renard, to compose the 

event 
In some such form as least may harm 
your Grace. 
Mary. I'll have the scandal sounded 
to the mud. 
I know it a scandal. 

Gardiner. All my hope is now 

It may be found a scandal. 

Mary. You offend us. 

Gardiner (aside). These princes are 

like children, must be phys- 

ick'd, 

The bitter in the sweet. I have lost 

mine office. 
It may be, thro' mine honesty, like a 
fool. [Exit. 



Enter Usher. 

3Iury. Who waits "? 

Usher. The Ambassador from 

France, your Grace. 
Bfury (sits down). Bid him come in. 
Good morning. Sir de Noailles. 
[^Exit Usher. 
Noailles (entering). A happy morn- 
ing to your Majesty. 
Mary. And I should some time have 
a happy morning ; 

I have had none yet. What says the 
King your Master ? 
Noailles. Madam, my master hears 
with much alarm. 

That you may marry Philip, Prince of 
Spain — 

Foreseeing, with whate'er unwilling- 
ness. 

That if this Philip be the titular king 

Of England, and at war with him, 
your Grace 

And kingdom will be suck'd into the 
war. 

Ay, tho' you long for peace ; where- 
fore, my master. 

If but to prove your Majesty's good- 
will, 

Would fain have some fresh treaty 
drawn between you. 
Mary. Why some fresh treaty ? 
wherefore should I do it 1 

Sir, if we marry, we shall still main- 
tain 

All former treaties with his Majesty. 

Our royal word for that ! and your 
good master. 

Pray God he do not be the first to 
break them, 

Must be content with that ; and so, 
farewell. 
Noailles (going, returns). I would 
your answer had been other, 
Madam, 

For I foresee dark days. 

Mary. And so do I, sir ; 

Your master works against me in the 
dark. 

I do believe he holp Northumberland 

Against me. 

Noailles. Nay, pure phantasy, your 
Grace. 

Why should he move against you ? 
Mary. Will you hear why ? 

Mary of Scotland, — for I have not 
own'd 

My sister, and I will not, — after 
me 

Is heir of England; and my royal 
father. 

To make the crown of Scotland one 
with ours, 

Had mark'd her for my brother Ed- 
ward's bride ; 



QUEEN MARY. 



459 



Ay, but your king stole her a babe 

from Scotland 
In order to betroth her to your Dau- 
phin. 
See then : 
Mary of Scotland, married to your 

Dauphin, 
Would make our England, France ; 
Mary of England, joining hands with 

Spain, 
Would be too strong for France. 
Yea, were there issue born to her, 

Spain and we, 
One crown, might rule the world. 

There lies your fear. 
That is your drift. You play at hide 

and seek. 
Show me your faces ! 

Noailles. Madam, I am amazed: 
French, I must needs wish all good 

things for France. 
That must be pardou'd me ; but I pro- 
test 
Your Grace's policy hath a farther 

flight 
Than mine into the future. We but 

seek 
Some settled ground for peace to stand 
upon. 
Mary. Well, we will leave all this, 
sir, to our council. 
Have you seen Philip ever 1 

Noailles. Only once. 

Mart). Is this like Philip ? 
Noailles. Ay, but nobler-looking. 
Mary. Hath he the large ability of 

Emperor ? 
Noailles. No, surely. 
Mary. I can make allowance for 
thee, 
Thou speakest of the enemy of thy 
king. 
Noailles. Make no allowance for the 
naked truth. 
He is every way a lesser man than 

Charles ; 
Stone-hard, ice-cold — no dash of dar- 
ing in him. 
Mary. If cold, his life is pure. 
Noailles. Why (smiliny), no, indeed. 
Mary. Saystthou? 
Noailles. A very wanton life indeed 

(smiling). 
Mary. Your audience is concluded, 
sir. [E.xit Noailles. 

You cannot 
Learn a man's nature from his natural 
foe. 

Filter UsHEK. 

Who waits ? 

Usher. The Ambassador of Spain, 
your Grace. [Exit. 

Enter Simon Renaed. 
Mary {rising to meet hiin). Thou art 



ever welcome, Simon Kenard. 

Hast thou 
Brought me the letter which thine 

Emperor promised 
Long since, a formal offer of the hand 
Of Philip ] 

Renard. Nay, your Grace, it hath 

not reach'd me. 
I know not wherefore — some mis- 
chance of flood, 
And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, 

or wave 
And wind at their old battle : he miist 

have written. 
Mary. But Philip never writes me 

one poor word. 
Which in his absence had been all my 

wealth. 
Strange in a wooer ! 

Renard. Yet I know the Prince, 

So your king-parliament suffer him to 

land, 
Yearns to set foot upon your island 

shore. 
Mary. God change the pebble 
which his kingly foot 
First presses into some more costly 

stone 
Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one 

mark it 
And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd 

firelikc ; 
I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, 

with diamond. 
Let the great angel of the church 

come with him ; 
Stand on the deck and spread his 

wings for sail ! 
God lay the waves and strow the 

storms at sea, 
And here at land among the people ! 

O Renard, 
I am much beset, I am almost in de- 

sjjair. 
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is 

ours; 
But for our heretic Parliament — 

Renard. O Madam, 

You fly your thoughts like kites. My 

master, Charles, 
Bade you go softly with your heretics 

here. 
Until your throne had ceased to trem- 
ble. Then 
Spit them like larks for aught I care. 

Besides, 
When Henry broke the carcase of 

your church 
To pieces, there Avere many wolves 

among you 
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into 

their den. 
The Pope would have you make them 

render these ; 
So would your cousin. Cardinal Pole ; 

ill counsel ! 



460 



QUEEN MARY. 



These let them keep at present ; stir 

not yet 
This matter of the Church lands. At 

his coming 
Your star will rise. 

Marij. My star ! a baleful one. 

I see but the black night, and hear 

the wolf. 
What star ? 

Eenard. Your star will be your 
princely son, 
Heir of this England and the Nether- 
lands ! 
And if your wolf the while should 

howl for more, 
We'll dust liim from a bag of Spanish 

gold. 
I do believe, I have dusted some al- 
ready, 
That, soon or late, your Parliament is 
ours. 
j\farj/. Why do they talk so foully 
of your Prince, 
Eenard 1 

Menard. The lot of Princes. To sit 
high 
Is to be lied about. 

2Ianj. They call him cold, 

Haughty, ay, worse. 

Renard. Why, doubtless, Philip 
shows 
Some of the bearing of your blue 

blood — still 
All within measure — nay, it well 
becomes him. 
Mart/. Hath he the large ability of 

liis father ? 
Renard. Nay, some believe that he 

will go beyond him. 
Mari/. Is this "like him ? 
Renard. Ay, somewhat ; but your 
Philip 
Is the most princelike Prince beneath 

the sun. 
This is a daub to Philip. 

Mary. Of a pure life ? 

Renard. As an angel among angels. 
Yea, by Heaven, 
The text — Your Highness knows it, 

" Whosoever 
Looketh after a woman," would not 

graze 
The Prince of Spain. You are hapjjy 

in him there. 
Chaste as your Grace ! 

Mary. I am happy in him there. 
Renard. And would be altogether 
happy. Madam, 
So that your sister were but look'd to 
closer. 

You have sent her from the court, but 

then she goes, 
I warrant, not to liear the nightingales, 
But hatch you some new treason in 

the M'oods. 



Mary. We have our spies abroad 

to catch her tripping. 
And then if caught, to the Tower. 

Renard. The Tower ! the block ! 
The word has turn'd your Highness 

pale ; tlie thing 
Was no such scarecrow in your father's 

time. 
I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd 

with the jest 
When the head leapt — so common ! 

I do think 
To save your crown that it must come 

to this. 
Alary. No, Eenard ; it must never 

come to this. 
Renard. Not yet ; but your old 

Traitors of the Tower — 
Why, wlien you put Northumberland 

to death. 
The sentence having past upon them 

all. 
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, 

Guildford Dudley, 
Ev'n that young girl who dared to 

wear your crown ? 
Mary. Dared ? nay, not so ; the 

child obey'd her father. 
Spite of her tears her father forced it 

on her. 
• Renard. Good Madam, when the 

' Roman wish'd to reign, 
He slew not him alone who wore the 

purple. 
But his assessor in the throne, per- 
chance 
A child more innocent than Lady Jane. 
Mary. I am English Queen, not 

Roman Emperor. 
Renard. Yet too much mercy is a 

want of mercy, 
And wastes more life. Stamp out the 

• fire, or this 
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn 

the throne 
Where you should sit with Philip : he 

will not come 
Till she be gone. 

Mary. Indeed, if that were true — 
For Philip comes, one hand in mine, 

and one 
Steadying the tremulous pillars of the 

Church — 
But no, no, no. Farewell. I am 

somewhat faint 
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I 

am not Queen 
Of mine own heart, which every now 

and then 
Beats me half dead : yet stay, this 

golden chain — 
My father on a birthday gave it me, 
And I have broken with my father — 

take 
And wear it as a memorial of a morn- 



QUEEN MARY 



461 



Which found me full of foolish doubts, 

and leaves me 
As hopeful. 
Renard (aside). Whew — the folly of 

all follies 
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. 

(Aloud) Madam, 
This chains me to your service, not 

with gold, 
But dearest links of love. Farewell, 

and trust me, 
Philip is yours. [Exit. 

Mary. Mine — but not yet all mine. 

Enter Ushek. 

Usher. Your Council is in Session, 

please your Majesty. 
Marji. Sir, let them sit. I miist 

have time to breathe. 
No, say I come. (Exit Usher.) I 

won by boldness once. 
The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to 

Flanders. 
I would not ; but a hundred miles I 

rode. 
Sent out my letters, call'd my friends 

together. 
Struck home and won. 
And when tlie Council would not 

crown me — thought 
To bind me first by oaths I could not 

keep. 
And keep with Christ and conscience 

— was it boldness 
Or weakness that won there 1 when I, 

their Queen, 
Cast myself down upon my knees 

before them. 
And those hard men brake into woman 

tears, 
Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that 

passion 
Gave me my Crown. 

Enter Alice. 
Girl ; hast thou ever heard 
Slanders against Prince Philip in our 
Court ? 
Alice. What slanders ? I, your 

Grace ; no, never. 
Mary. Nothing 1 

Alice. Never, your Grace. 
Mary. See that you neither hear 

them nor repeat ! 
Alice (aside). Good Lord! but I 
have heard a thousand such. 
Ay, and repeated them as often — 

mum ! 
Why comes that old fox-Fleming back 
again ? 

Enter Rexaed. 
Renard. Madam, I scarce had left 
j^our Grace's presence 
Before I chanced upon the messenger 



Who brings that letter which we 

waited for — 
The formal offer of Prince Philip's 

hand. 
It craves an instant answer. Ay or 
No. 
Mary. An instant Ay or No ! the 
Council sits. 
Give it me quick. 

Alice (stepping before her). Your 

Highness is all trembling. 
Mary. Make way. 

\_Exit into the Council Chamber. 
Alice. 0, Master Renard, Master 
Renard, 
If you have falsely painted your fine 

Prince ; 
Praised, where you should have 

blamed him, I pray God 
No woman ever love you, Master 
Renard. 

] It breaks my heart to hear her moan 
j at night 

As tho' the nightmare never left her 
bed. 
Renard. My pretty maiden, tell me, 
did you ever 
Sigh for a beard ? 

Alice. That's not a pretty question. 
Renard. Not prettily put 1 I mean, 
my pretty maiden, 
A pretty man for such a prettj' 
maiden. 
Alice. My Lord of Devon is a pretty 
man. 
I hate him. Well, but if I have, what 
then ■? 
Renard. Then, pretty maiden, you 
should know that whether 
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to 

fan 
A kindled fire. 

Alice. According to the song. 

His friends would praise him, I believed 'em, 
His foes would blame him, and I scorn'd 
'em, 

His friends — as Angels I received 'em. 
His foes — the Devil had suborn'd 'em. 

Renard. Peace, pretty maiden. 

I hear them stirring in the Council 
Chamber. 

Lord Paget's "Ay" is sure — who 
else 1 and yet, 

They are all too much at odds to close 
at once 

In one full-throated No ! Her High- 
ness comes. 



Enter Mary. 

Alice. How deathly pale ! — a chair, 
your Highness. 

\_Bringing one to the Queen. 
Renard. Madam, 

The Council '? 



462 



QUEEN MARY. 



I- 



Mary. Ay ! My Philip is all mine. 

[S»i/(.'s into chair, half fainting. 



ACT II. 
SCENE I. — Allington Castle. 

Sir Thomas Wijatt. I do not hear 

from Carew or the Duke 
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not 

move. 
The Duke hath gone to Leicester ; 

Carew stirs 
In Devon : that fine porcelain Courte- 

nay. 
Save that he fears he might be crack'd 

in using, 
(I have known a semi-madman in my 

time 
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon 

too. 

Enter William. 

News abroad, William 1 

William. None so new, Sir Thomas, 
and none so old, Sir Thomas. No 
new news that Philip comes to wed 
Mary, no old news that all men hate 
it. Old Sir Thomas would have hated 
it. The bells are ringing at Maidstone, 
Doesn't your worship hear 1 

Wyatt. Ay, for the Saints are come 

to reign again. 
Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's 

no call 
As yet for me ; so in this pause, before 
The mine be fired, it were a pious 

work 
To string my father's sonnets, left 

about 
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair 

order, 
And head them with a lamer rhyme 

of mine. 
To grace his memory. 

William. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas ■? 
He was a fine courtier, lie ; Queen 
Anne loved him. All the women 
loved him. I loved him, I was in 
Spain with him. I couldn't eat in 
Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I 
hate Spain, Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. But thou could'st drink in 

Sixain if I remember. 
William. Sir Thomas, we may grant 
the wine. Old Sir Thomas always 
granted the wine. 

Wyatt. Hand me the casket with my 
father's sonnets. 

William. Ay — sonnets — a fine 
courtier of the old Court, old Sir 
Thomas. [^Exit. 

Wyatt. Courtier of many courts, he 

loved the more 



His o^^ii gray towers, plain life and 
/ letter'd peace, 

, To read and rhyme in solitary fields, 
\ The lark above, the nightingale below, 
^ And answer them in song. The sire 
begets 
Not half his likeness in the son. I 

fail 
Where he Mas fullest : yet — to write 
it down. \^He writes. 

Re-enter William. 

William. There is news, there is 
news, and no call for sonnet-sorting 
now, nor for sonnet-making either, but 
ten thousand men on Penenden Heath 
all calling after your worship, and 
your worship's name heard into Maid- 
stone market, and your worship the 
first man in Kent and Christendom, 
for the Queen's down, and the world's 
up, and your worship a-top of it. 
Wyatt. Inverted ^Esop — mountain 
out of mouse. 
Say for ten thousand ten — and pot- 
house knaves, 
Brain-dizzied Mith a draught of morn- 
ing ale. 

Enter Antony Kntvett. 

William. Here's Antony Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Look you, Master Wyatt, 
Tear up that woman's work there. 

Wyatt. No ; not these, 

Dumb children of my father, that will 

speak 
When I and thou and all rebellions 

lie 
Dead bodies without voice. Song 

flies yon know 
For ages. 

Knyvett. Tut, your sonnet's a flying 
ant, 
Wing'd for a moment. 

Wyatt. Well, for mine own work, 

[ Tearing the paper. 

It lies there in six pieces at your feet ; 

For all that I can carry it in my head. 

Knyvett. If you can carry your head 

upon your shoulders. 
Wyatt. I fear you come to carry it 
off my shoulders, 
And sonnet-making's safer. 

Knyvett. Why, good Lord, 

Write you as many sonnets as you 

will. 
Ay, but not now ; what, have you 

eyes, ears, brains ? 
This Philip and the black-faced 

swarms of Spain, 
The hardest, cruellest people in the 

world. 
Come locusting upon us, eat us up, 
Confiscate lands, goods, money — 
Wyatt, Wyatt. 



QUEEN MAJ^y 



463 



Wake, or the stout old island will 

become 
A rotten limb of Spain. They roar 

for you 
On Penenden Heath, a thousand of 

them — more — 
All arm'd, waiting a leader; there's 

no glorj"^ 
Xiike his who saves his countr}- : and 

you sit 
Sing-songing here ; but, if I'm any 

judge, 
By God, you are as poor a poet, 

Wyatt, 
As a good soldier. 

Wyatt. You as poor a critic 

As an honest friend: you stroke me 

on one cheek. 
Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, 

Antony ! 
You know I know all this. I must 

not move 
Until I hear from Carew and the Duke. 
I fear the mine is fired before the 

time. 
Ktujvett (showing a paper). But 

here's some Hebrew. Faith, I 

half forgot it. 
Look ; can you make it English ■? A 

strange youth 
Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, 

""Wyatt," 
And whisking round a corner, sliow'd 

his back 
Before I read his face. 

Wi/ati. Ha ! Courtenay's cipher. 

[^Reads. 
" Sir Peter Carew fled to France : it 
is thought the ]^uke will be taken. 
I am with you still ; but, for appear- 
ance sake, stay with the Queen. Gar- 
diner knows, but the Council are all at 
odds, and the Queen hath no force for 
resistance. Move, if you move, at 
once." 

Is Peter Carew fled 1 Is the Duke 

taken ? 
Down scabbard, and out sword ! and 

let Rebellion 
Roar till throne rock, and crown fall. 

No ; not that ; 
But we will teach Queen Mary how to 

reign. 
Who are those that shout below there ? 
Knyvett. Why, some fifty 

That foUow'd me from Penenden 

Heath in hope 
To hear you speak. 

Wi/att. Open the window, Knyvett ; 
The mine is fired, and I will speak to 

them. 

Men of Kent ; England of England ; 
you that have kept your old customs 
upright, while all the rest of England 



boAv'd tlieirs to the Xorman, the cause 
that hath brought us together is not 
the cause of a county or a shire, but 
of this England, in whose crown our 
Kent is the fairest jewel. Philip shall 
not wed Mary ; and 3'e have called me 
to be your leader. I know Sjiain. I 
have been there with my father; I 
have seen them in their own land ; 
have marked the haughtiiicss of their 
nobles ; the cruelty of tlieir priests. 
If this man marrj- our Queen, however 
the Council and the Commons may 
fence round his jiower with restriction, 
he will be King, King of England, my 
masters ; and the Queen, and the laws, 
and the people, his slaves. What ? 
shall we have Spain on the throne and 
in the parliament ; Spain in the pulpit 
and on the law-bench ; Spain in all the 
great offices of state ; Spain in our 
ships, in our forts, in our houses, in 
our beds 1 

Croivd. No ! no ! no Spain ! 

William. No Spain in our beds — 
that were worse than all. I have been 
there with old Sir Thomas, and the 
beds I know. I hate Sixain. 

A Peasant. But,SirThomas,mustwe 
levy war against the Queen's Grace ? 

Wyatt. No, my friend; war /or tlie 
Queen's Grace — to save her from her- 
self and Philip — war against Spain. 
And think not we sliall be alone — 
thousands will flock to us. The 
Council, the Court itself, is on our side. 
The Lord Chancellor himself is on our 
side. The King of France is with us ; 
the King of Denmark is with us ; the 
world is with us — war against Spain ! 
And if we mcve not now, yet it will be 
known that we have moved ; and if 
Philip come to be King, 0, my God ! 
the rope, the rack, the thumbscrew, 
the stake, the fire. If we move not 
now, Spain moves, bribes our nobles 
with her gold, and creeps, creeps 
snake-like about our legs till we can- 
not move at all; and ye know, my 
masters, that wherever Spain hath 
ruled she hath wither'd all beneath 
her. Look at the New World — a 
paradise made hell ; the red man, that 
good helpless creature, starved, 
maim'd, flogg'd, flay'd, burn'd, boil'd, 
buried alive, worried by dogs ; and 
here, nearer home, the Netherlands, 
Sicily, Naples, Lombardy. I say no 
more — only this, their lot is yours. 
Forward to London with me ! forward 
to London ! If \q love your lilierties 
or your skins, forward to London ! 

Croird. Forward to London ! A 
Wyatt ! a Wyatt ! 

Wyatt. But first to Rochester, to 
take the guns 



464 



QUEEN MARY. 



From out the vessels lying in tlie 

river. 
Then on. 

A Peasant. A3% but I fear we be too 

few, Sir Thomas. 
Wi/ait. Xot many yet. The world 
as yet, my friend, 
Is not half-waked; but every jiarish 

tower 
Shall clang and clash alarum as we 

pass. 
And pour along the land, and swoll'n 

and fed 
"With indraughts and side-currents, in 

full force 
Roll upon London. 

Croivd. A Wyatt! a Wyatt! For- 
ward ! 
Knyvett. Wyatt, shall we proclaim 

Elizabeth 1 
Wi/att. I'll think upon it, Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Or Lady Jane 1 

Wi/att. No, poor soul ; no. 
Ah, gray old castle of AUington, green 

field 
Beside the brimming Medway, it may 

chance 
That I shall never look upon you 
more. 
Knyvett. Come, now, you're sonnet- 
ting again. 
Wyatt. Not I. 

I'll have my head set higher in the 

state ; 
Or — if the Lord God will it— on the 
stake. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. — Guildhall. 

Sir Thomas White (The Lord 
Mayor), Lord William Howard, 
Sir Ralph Bagexhall, Alder- 
MEX and Citizens. 

White. I trust the Queen comes 

hither with her guards. 
Howard. Ay, all in arms. 

[Several oftltc citizens move hastily 
out of the hall. 

Why do they hurry out there ? 
White. My Lord, cut out the rotten 
from your ajjple, 
Your apple eats the better. Let them 

go. 
They go like those old Pharisees in 

John 
Convicted by their conscience, arrant 

cowards, 
Or tamperers with that treason out of 

Kent. 
When will her Grace be here "? 

Hoirard. In some few minutes. 

She will address your guilds and com- 
panies. ■ 
I have striven in vain to raise a man 
for her. 



But help her in this exigenc}', 

make 
Your city loyal, and be the mightiest 

man 
This day in England. 

White. I am Thomas White. 

Few things have fail'd to which I set 

my will. 
I do my most and best. 

Howard. You know that after 

The Captain Brett, who went with 

3-our train bands 
To fight with Wyatt, had gone over 

to him 
With all his men, the Queen in that 

disti-ess 
Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the 

traitor, 
Feigning to treat with him about her 

marriage — 
Know too what Wyatt said. 

White. He'd sooner be, 

While this same marriage question 

was being argued. 
Trusted than trust — the scoundrel — 

and demanded 
Possession of her person and the 
Tower. 
Howard. And four of her poor 
Council too, my Lord, 
As hostages. 

White. I know it. What do and 
say 
Your Council at this hour 1 

Howard. I will trust you. 

AYe fling ourselves on you, my Lord. 

The Council, 
The Parliament as well, are troubled 

waters ; 
And yet like waters of the fen they 

know not 
Which way to flow. All hangs on her 

address, 
And upon you, Lord Mayor. 

White. How look'd the city 

When now you past it ? Quiet ? 

Howard. Like our Council, 

Your city is divided. As we past. 
Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There 

were citizens 
Stood each before his shut-up booth, 

and look'd 
As grim and grave as from a funeral. 
And here a knot of ruffians all in 

rags. 
With execrating execrable eyes. 
Glared at the citizen. Here was a 

young mother, i 

Her face on flame, her red hair all 

blown back, 
She shrilling '• Wyatt," M'hile the boy 

she held 
Mimick'd and piped her " Wyatt," as 

red as she 
In hair and cheek ; and almost elbow- 
ing her. 



QUEEN MARY. 



46.S 



So close they stood, .another, mute as 

death , 
And white as her own milk ; her babe 

in arms 
Had felt the faltering of his mother's 

heart, 
And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious 

Catholic, 
Mumbling and mixing up in his scared 

prayers 
Heaven and earth's Maries ; over his 

bow'd shoulder 
Scowl'd that world-hated and world- 
hating beast, 
A haggard Anabaptist. ^lany such 

groups. 
The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, 

Courtenaj', 
Nay the Queen's right to reign — 'fore 

God, the rogues — 
Were freely buzzed among them. So 

I say 
Your city is divided, and I fear 
One scruple, this or that way, of suc- 
cess 
"Would turn it thither. "Wherefore 

now the Queen 
In this low pulse and palsy of the 

state, 
Bade me to tell you that she counts on 

you 
And on myself as her two hands ; on 

you, 

In your own city, as her right, my 
Lord, 

For you are loyal. 

White. Am I Thomas White ? 

One word before she comes. Eliza- 
beth — 

Her name is much abused among 
these traitors. 

"Where is she ? She is loved by all 
of us. 

I scarce have heart to mingle in this 
matter. 

If she should be mishandled. 

Howard. No ; she shall not. 

The Queen had ^vritten her word to 
come to court : 

Methought I smelt out Renard in the 
letter. 

And fearing for her, sent a secret mis- 
sive. 

Which told her to be sick. Happily 
or not. 

It found her sick indeed. 

White. God send her well ; 

Here comes her Royal Grace. 

Enter Guards, Mart, and Gardiner. 
Sir Thomas White leads her to a 
raised seat on the dais. 
White. I, the Lord Mayor, and 
these our companies 
And guilds of London, gathered here, 
beseech 



Your Highness to accept our lowliest 

thanks 
For your most princely presence ; and 

we pray 
That we, your true and loj'al citizens, 
From your own royal lips, at once 

may know 
The wherefore of this coming, and so 

learn 
Your royal will, and do it. — I, Lord 

Mayor 
Of London, and our guilds and com- 
panies. 
Mari/. In mine own person am I 

come to you. 
To tell you what indeed ye see and 

know. 
How traitorously these rebels out of 

Kent 
Have made strong head against our- 
selves and you. 
They would not have me wed the 

Prince of Spain ; 
That was their pretext — so they 

sjjake at first — 
But we sent divers of our Council to 

tliem, 
And by their answers to the question 

ask'd. 
It dotli appear this marriage is the 

least 
Of all their quarrel. 
They have betrayed the treason of 

their hearts : 
Seek to possess our person, hold our 

Tower, 
Place and displace our councillors, and 

use 
Both us and them according as they 

will. 
Now what I am ye know right well — 

your Queen; 
To whom, when I was wedded to the 

realm 
And the realm's laws (the spousal 

ring whereof. 
Not ever to be laid aside, I wear 
Upon this finger), ye did i^romise 

full 
Allegiance and obedience to the death. 
Ye know my father was the rightful 

heir 
Of England, and his right came down 

to me. 
Corroborate by your acts of Parlia- 
ment : 
And as ye were most loving unto 

him. 
So doubtless will ye show yourselves 

to me. 
Wherefore, ye will not brook that 

anyone 
Should seize our person, occupy our 

state, 
More specially a traitor so presumptu- 
ous 



466 



QUEEN MARY. 



As this same Wyatt, wlio hath tam- 

per'd with 
A public ignorance^ and, under color 
Of such a cause as hath no color, seeks 
To bend the laws to his own will, and 

yield 
Full scope to persons rascal and for- 
lorn. 
To make free spoil and havock of 

your goods. 
Now as your Prince, I say, 
I, that was never mother, cannot tell 
How mothers love their children ; yet, 

methinks, 
A prince as naturally may love his 

people 
As these tlieir children ; and be sure 

your Queen 
So loves you, and so loving, needs 

must deem 
This love by you return'd as heartily ; 
And thro' this common knot and bond 

of love. 
Doubt not they will be speedily over- 
thrown. 
As to this marriage, ye shall under- 
stand 
"We made thereto no treaty of ourselves, 
And set no foot theretoward unadvised 
Of all our Privy Council ; furthermore, 
This marriage had the assent of those 

to whom 
The king, my father, did commit his 

trust ; 
Who not alone esteem'd it honorable. 
But for the wealth and glory of our 

realm. 
And all our loving subjects, most ex- 
pedient. 
As to myself, 

I am not so set on wedlock as to choose 
But where I list, nor yet so amorous 
That I must needs be husbanded ; I 

thank God, 
Ihaveliveda virgin,andInowaydoubt 
But that with God's grace, I can live 

so still. 
Yet if it might please God that I 

should leave 
Some fruit of mine own body after me. 
To be your king, ye would rejoice 

thereat. 
And it would be your comfort, a.s I 

trust ; 
And truly, if I either thought or knew 
This marriage should bring loss or 

danger to you. 
My subjects, or impair in any way 
This royal state of England, I would 

never 
Consent thereto, nor marry while I live : 
Moreover, if this marriage should not 

seem. 
Before our own High Court of Parlia- 
ment, 
To be of rich advantage to our realm, 



We will refrain, and not alone from 
this, 

Likewise from any other, out of which 

Looms the least chance of peril to our 
realm. 

Wherefore be bold, and with 3-our law- 
ful Prince 

Stand fast against our enemies and 
yours. 

And fear them not. I fear them not. 
My Lord, 

I leave Lord William Howard in your 
city, 

To guard and keep you whole and 
safe from all 

The spoil and sackage aim'd at by 
these rebels. 

Who mouth and foam against the 
Prince of Spain. 
Voices. Long live Queen Mary ! 
Down with Wyatt ! 

The Queen ! 
White. Three voices from our guilds 
and companies ! 

You are shy and proud like English- 
men, my masters, 

And will not trust your voices. Under- 
stand : 

Your lawful Prince hath come to cast 
herself 

On loyal hearts and bosoms, hoped to 
fall 

Into the wide-spread arms of fealty, 

And finds you statues. Speak at once 
— and all ! 

For whom 1 

Our sovereign Lady by King Harrv's 
will ; 

The Queen of England — or the Kent- 
ish Squire 1 

I know you loj'al. Speak ! in the 
name of God ! 

The Queen of England or the rabble 
of Kent ■? 

The reeking dungfork master of the 
mace ! 

Your havings wasted by the scythe 
and spade — 

Your rights and charters hobnail'd 
into slush — 

Your houses fired — j^our gutters 

bubbling blood 

Acclamation. No ! No ! The Queen ! 

the Queen ! 
White. Your Highness hears 

This bm-st and bass of loyal harmony. 

And how we each and all of us abhor 

The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt 

Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now 
make oath 

To raise your Highness thirty thou- 
sand men. 

And arm and strike as with one hand, 
and brush 

This Wyatt from our shoulders, like 
a flea 



QUEEN MARY. 



467 



That might liave leapt upon us un- 
awares. 

Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, 
all. 

With all your trades, and guilds, and 
companies. 
Citizens. We swear ! 
Mary. We thank your Lordshi}} and 
your loyal city. 

[Exit Mary attended. 
White. I trust this day, thro' God, 

I have saved the crown. 
First Alderman. Ay, so ray Lord 
of Pembroke in command 

Of all her force be safe ; but there are 
doubts. 
Second Alderman. I liear that Gar- 
diner, coming with the Queen, 

And meeting Pembroke, bent to his 
saddle-bow. 

As if to win the man by flattering him. 

Js he so safe to fight upon her side ? 
First Alderman. If not, there's no 

man safe. 
White. Yes, Thomas White. 

I am safe enough ; no man need flat- 
ter me. 
Second Alderman. Nay, no man 
need; but did you mark our 
Queen ? 

The color freely play'd into her 
face. 

And the half sight which makes her 
look so stern, 

Seem'd thro' that dim dilated world 
of hers. 

To read our faces ; I have never seen 
her 

So queenly or so goodly. 

White. Courage, sir, 

That makes or man or woman look 
their goodliest. 

Die like the torn fox dumb, but never 
whine 

Like that poor heart, Northumberland, 
at the block. 
Bagenhall. The man had children, 
and he whined for those. 

Methinks most men are but poor- 
hearted, else 

Should we so dote on courage, were 
it commoner ? 

The Queen stands up, and speaks for 
her own self ; 

And all men cry, She is queenly, she 
is goodly. 

Yet she's no goodlier ; tho' my Lord 
Mayor here. 

By his own rule, he hath been so bold 
to-day. 

Should look more goodly than the 
rest of us. 
White. Goodly ? I feel most good- 
ly heart and hand, 

And strong to throw ten Wyatts and 
all Kent. 



Ha ! ha ! sir ; but you jest ; I love it ; 

a jest 
In time of danger shows the pulses 

even. 
Be merry ! yet, Sir Ralph, you look 

but sad. 
I dare avouch you'd stand up for 

yourself, 
Tho' all the world should bay like 

winter wolves. 
Bagenhall. Who knows ? the man 

is proven by the hour. 
White. The man should make the 

hour, not this the man ; 
And Thomas White will prove this 

Thomas Wyatt, 
And he will prove an Iden to this 

Cade, 
And he will play the Walworth to 

this Wat ; 
Come, sirs, we prate ; hence all — 

gatlier your men — 
Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes 

to Southwark ; 
I'll have the drawbridge hewn into 

the Thames, 
And see the citizens arm'd. Good 

day ; good day. [Exit White. 
Bagenhall. One of much outdoor 

bluster. 
Howard. For all that. 

Most honest, brave, and skilful ; and 

his wealth 
A fountain of perennial alms — his 

fault 
So thoroughly to believe in his own 

self. 
Bagenhall. Yet thoroughly to be- 
lieve in one's own self. 
So one's own self be thorough. Mere 

to do 
Great things, my Lord. 

Howard. It may be. 

Bagenhall. I have heard 

One of your Council fleer and jeer at 

him. 
Howard. The nursery-cocker'd child 

will jeer at aught 
That may seem strange beyond his 

nursery. 
The statesman that shall jeer and fleer 

at men, 
Makes enemies for himself and for his 

king ; 
And if he jeer not seeing the true 

man 
Behind his follv, he is thrice the 

fool ; 
And if he see the man and still will 

jeer, 
He is child and fool, and traitor to the 

State. 
AVho is he ? let me shim him. 

Bagenhall. Nay, my Lord, 

He is damn'd cnonsili alreadj'. 

Howard. I must set 



468 



QUEEN MARY. 



The guard at Ludgate. Fare you 

well, Sir Ralph. 
Bagcuhall. "Who knows ? " I am for 

England. But who knows, 
That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, 

and the Pope, 
Whether I be for Wyatt, or the 

Queen ? \_Exeunt. 

SCENE III. — London Bridge. 

Enter Sir Thomas Wyatt and 
Brktt. 

Wyatt. Brett, when the Duke of 

Norfolk moved against us 
Thou cried'st " A AVyatt ! " and flying 

to our side 
Left his all bare, for which I love 

thee, Brett. 
Have for thine asking aught that I 

can give, 
For thro' thine help we are come to 

London Bridge ; 
But how to cross it balks me. I fear 

we cannot. 
Brett. Nay, hardly, save by boat, 

swimming, or wings. 
Wyatt. Last night I climb'd into 

the gate-house, Brett, 
And scared the gray old porter and 

his wife. 
And then I crept along the gloom and 

saw 
They had hewn the drawbridge down 

into the river. 
It roll'd as black as death ; and that 

same tide 
Which, coming with our coming, 

seem'd to smile 
And sparkle like our fortune as thou 

saidest. 
Ran sunless down, and moau'd against 

the piers. 
But o'er the chasm I saw Lord Wil- 
liam Howard 
By torchliglit, and his guard ; four 

guns gaped at me, 
Black, silent mouths: had Howard 

spied me there 
And made thcni speak, as Avell he 

might have done, 
Their voice had left me none to tell 

you this. 
What shall we do ? 

Brett. On somehow. To go back 
Were to lose all. 

Wi/att. On over London Bridge 

We cannot : stay we cannot ; there is 

ordnance 
On the White Tower and on the Devil's 

Tower, 
And pointed full at Southwark ; we 

must round 
By Kingston Bridge. 

Brett. Ten miles about. 



Wyatt. Ev'n so. 

But I have notice from our partisans 
Within the city that they will stand 

by us 
If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn to- 
morrow. 

Enter one of Wyatt's vien. 
Man. Sir Thomas, I've found this 
paper ; pray your worship read it ; I 
know not 1113' letters; the old priests 
taught me nothing. 

Wyatt (reads). "Whosoever will 
apprehend the traitor Thomas Wyatt 
shall have a hundred pounds for re- 
ward." 

Man. Is that it ? That's a big lot 

of money. 
Wyatt. Ay, ay, my friend; not read 
it ? 'tis not written 
Half plain enough. Give me a piece 
of paper ! 
[ Wiites " Thomas Wyatt " larye. 
There, any man can read that. 

\_S ticks it in his cap. 
Brett. But that's foolhardy. 

Wyatt. No ! boldness, which will 
give my followers boldness. 

Enter Man tcith a prisoner. 

Man. We found him, j'our worship, 
a plundering o' Bishop Winchester's 
house ; he says he's a poor gentle- 
man. 

Wyatt. Gentleman ! a thief ! Go 
hang him. Shall we make 
Those that we come to serve our 
sharpest foes ? 
Brett. Sir Thomas — 

Wyatt. Hang him, I say. 

Brett. Wyatt, but now you promised 

me a boon. 
Wyatt. Ay, and I warrant this fine 
fellow's life. 
\ Brett. Ev'n so; he was my neighbor 
once in Kent. 
He's poor enough, has drunk and 

gambled out 
All that he had, and gentleman he 

was. 
We have been glad together ; let him 
live. 
Wyatt. He has gambled for his 
life, and lost, he hangs. 
No, no, my word's my word. Take thy 

poor gentleman ! 
Gamble thyself at once out of my 

sight, 
Or I will dig thee with my dagger. 

Away ! 
Women and children ! 

Enter a Crowd of Women and 
Children. 
First Woman. Sir Thomas, Sir 
Thomas, pra}' j-ou go away. Sir 



QUEEN MARY. 



469 



Thomas, or you'll make the White 
Tower a black 'iin for us this blessed 
day. He'll be the death on us ; 
and you'll set the Divil's Tower a- 
spitting, and he'll smash all our bits 
o' things worse tlian Philip o' Spain. 

Second Woman. Don't ye now go to 
think that we be for Philip o' Spain. 

Third Woman. No, we know that 
ye be come to kill the Queen, and 
we'll pray for you all on our bended 
knees. But o' God's mercy don't ye 
kill the Queen here, Sir Thomas ; look 
ye, here's little Dickon, and little 
Robin, and little Jenny — though she's 
but a side-cousin — and all on our 
knees, we pray you to kill the Queen 
further off, Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. JNIy friends,! have not come 
to kill the Queen 
Or here or there : I come to save you 

all. 
And I'll go further off. 

Crowd. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be 
beholden to you, and we'll pray for 
you on our bended knees till our lives' 
end. 

Wyatt. Be happy, I am j-our friend. 
To Kingston, forward! [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. — KooM IN THE Gate- 
house OF Westjiinster Palace. 

Mary, Alice, Garuixeu, Een'ard, 
Ladies. 

Gardiner. Their cry is, Philip never 

shall be king. 
■Mary. Lord Pembroke in command 
of all our force 
Will front their cry and shatter them 
into dust. 
Alice. Was not Lord Pembroke 
with Northumberland ? 
O madam, if this Pembroke should be 
false ? 
Mary. No, girl ; most brave and 
loyal, brave and loyal. 
His breaking with Northumberland 

broke Northumberland. 
At the park gate he hovers with our 

guards. 
These Kentish ploughmen cannot 
break the guards. 

Enter Messenger. 

Messenger. Wyatt, your Grace, hath 

broken thro' the guards. 
And gone to Ludgate. 

Gardiner. Madam, I much fear 
That all is lost ; but we can save your 

Grace. 
The river still is free. I do beseech 

you, 
There yet is time, take boat and pass 

to Windsor. 



Mary. I pass to Windsor and I lose 

my crown. 
Gardiner. Pass, tlien, I pray your 

Highness, to tlie Tower. 
Mary. I shall but be their prisoner 

in the Tower. 
Cries without. Tlie traitor! treason! 

Pembroke ! 
Ladies. Treason ! treason ! 

Mary. Peace. 
False to Northumberland, is he false 

to me? 
Bear witness, Renard, that I live and 

die 
The true and faithful bride of Philip 

— A sound 

Of feet and voices thickening hither 

— blows • — 

Hark, there is battle at the palace 

gates. 
And I will out upon the gallery. 
Ladies. No, no, your Grace ; see 

there the arrows flying. 
Mary. I am Harry's daughter, Tu- 
dor, and not fear. 

[6'oes out on the gallery. 
The guards are all driven in, skulk 

into corners 
Like rabbits to their holes. A gra- 
cious guard 
Truly ; siiame on them ! they have 
shut the gates ! 

Enter Sir Robert Southwell. 

Southwell. The porter, please j'our 
Grace, hath shut the gates 
On friend and foe. Your gentlemen- 
at-arms. 
If this be not your Grace's order, cry 
To have tlie gates set wide again, and 

they 
With their good battleaxes will do you 

right 
Against all traitors. 

Mary. Thej^ are the flower of Eng- 
land ; set the gates wide. 

[Exit Southwell. 

Enter Courtexay. 

Courtenay. All lost, all lost, all 
yielded I a barge, a barge ! 
The Queen must to the Tower. 

Mary. Wlience come you, sir 1 

Courtenay. From Charing Cross ; 
the rebels broke us there. 
And I sped hither with what haste I 

might 
To save my royal cousin. 

Mary. Where is Pembroke ? 

Courtenay. I left him somewhere in 

the thick of it. 
Mary. Left him and fled ; and thou 
that would'st be King, 
And hast nor heart nor honor. I my- 
self 



470 



QUEEN MARV. 



Will clown into the battle and there 

bide 
The upshot of my quarrel, or die with 

those 
That are no cowards and no Courte- 

nays. 
Courtenaji. I do not love your Grace 

should call me coward. 

Enter another Messengek. 
Messenger. Over, your Grace, all 
crush'd ; the brave Lord Wil- 
liam 
Thrust him from Ludgate, and the 

traitor flying 
To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice 

Berkeley 
Was taken prisoner. 

Mary. To the Tower with hivi ! 

Messem/er. 'Tis said he told Sir 
Maurice there was one 
Cognizant of this, and party thereunto, 
My Lord of Devon. 

Mary. To the Tower with him ! 

Courtenay. O la, the Tower, the 
Tower, always the Tower, 
I shall grow into it — I shall be the 
Tower. 
Mary. Your lordship may not have 
so long to wait. 
Remove him ! 

Courtenay. La, to whistle out my 
life, 
And carve my coat upon the walls 
again ! 

[^Exit Courtenay guarded. 
Messenger. Also this Wyatt did 
confess the Princess 
Cognizant thereof, and party there- 
unto. 
Mary. What ? whom — whom did 

you say ? 
Messenger. Elizabeth, 

Your Royal sister. 

Mary. To the Tower with her ! 

Mj' foes are at my feet and I am 

Queen. 

[Gardiner and her Ladies kneel to her. 

Gardiner (rising). There let tliem 

lie,your footstool ! (Aside.) Can 

I strike 

Elizabeth '{ — not now and save the 

life 
Of Devon : if I save him, he and his 
Are bound to me — may strike here- 
after. (Aloud.) Madam, 
What Wyatt said, or what they said 

he said. 
Cries of Ihe moment and the street — 
Mary. He said it. 

Gardiner. Your courts of justice 

will determine tliat. 
Renard (advancing). I trust by this 
your Highness will allow 
Some spice of wisdom in my telling 
you. 



When last we talk'd, that Philip would 

not come 
Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke of 

Suffolk, 
And Lady Jane had left us. 

Mary. They shall die. 

Renard. And your so loving sister ? 

Mary. She shall die. 

My foes are at my feet, and Philip 

King. [^Exeunt. 

ACT III. 
SCENE I. — The Conduit in Gkace- 

CHURCH, 

Painted with the Nine Worthies, amo7ig 
them King Henry VIII. holding a 
book, on it inscribed " Verbum Dei." 

Eriter Sir Ralph Bagenhall and Sir 

Thomas Stafford. 

Bagenhall. A hundred here and 

hundreds hang'd in Kent. 

The tigress had unsheath'd her nails 

at last, 
And Renard and the Chancellor sharp- 

en'd them. 
In every London street a gibbet 

'stood. 
They are down to-day. Here by this 

house was one; 
The traitor husband dangled at the 

door. 
And when the traitor wife came out 

for broad 
To still the petty treason therewithin, 
Her cap would brush his heels. 

Stafford. It is Sir Ralph, 

And muttering to himself as hereto- 
fore. 
Sir, see you aught up yonder ? 

Bagenhall. I miss something. 

The tree that only bears dead fruit is 
gone. 
Stafford. What, tree, sir 1 
Bagenhall. Well, the tree in 

Virgil, sir. 
That bears not its own apples. 

Stafford. What ! the gallows ? 

Bagenhall. Sir, this dead fruit was 
ripening overmuch, 
And had to be removed lest living 

Spain 
Should sicken at dead England. 

Stcfford. Not so dead. 

But that a shock may rouse her. 

Bagenhall. I believe 

Sir Thomas Stafford ? 

Stafford. I am ill disguised. 

Bagenhall. Well, are you not in 

peril here t 
Stafford. I think so. 

I came to feel the pulse of England, 
whether 



QUEEN MARY. 



471 



It beats hard at this marriage. Did 

you see it '? 
BarjenhalL Staffortl, I am a sad man 

and a serious. 
Far liefer had I in my country hall 
Been reading some old book, with 

mine old hound 
Couch'd at my hearth, and mine old 

flask of wine 
Beside me, than have seen it: yet I 

saw it. 
Stafford. Good, was it splendid ? 
Bagenhall. Ay, if Dukes, and Earls, 
And Counts, and sixty Spanish cava- 
liers. 
Some six or seven Bishops, diamonds, 

pearls, 
That rojal commonplace too, cloth 

of gold. 
Could make it so. 

Stafford. And what was Mary's 

dress 1 
Bagenhall. Good faith, I was too 

sorry for the woman 
To mark the dress. She wore red 

shoes ! 
Stafford. Red shoes ! 

Bagenhall. Scarlet, as if her feet 

were wash'd in blood. 
As if she had waded in it. 

Stafford. Were your eyes 

So bashful that you look'd no higher ? 

Bagenhall . A diamond. 

And Philip's gift; as proof of riiilip's 

love, 
Who hath not any for anj^, — tho' a 

true one, 
Blazed false upon her heart. 

Stafford. But this proud Prince — 
Bagenhall. Nay, he is King, you 

know, the King of T^aples. 
The fatlier ceded Naples, that the son 
Being a King, might wed a Queen — 

Ohe 
Plamed in brocade — white satin his 

trunkhose, 
InwTought with silver, — on his neck 

a collar, 
Gold, thick with diamonds ; hanging 

down from this 
The Golden Fleece — and round his 

knee, misplaced. 
Our English Garter, studded with 

great emeralds. 
Rubies, I know not what. Have you 

had enough 
Of all this gear ? 

Stafford. Ay, since you hate the 

telling it. 
How look'd the Queen 1 

Bagenhall. No fairer for her jewels. 
And I could see that as the new-made 

couple 
Came from the Minster, moving side 

by side 
Beneath one canopy, ever and anon 



She cast on him a vassal smile of 

love, 
Which Philip with a glance of some 

distaste. 
Or so methought, return'd. I may be 

wrong, sir. 
This marriage will not hold. 

Stafford. I think with you. 

The King of France will help to break 

it. 
Bagenhall. France ! 

We once had half of France, and 

hurl'd our battles 
Into the heart of Spain ; but England 

now 
Is but a ball chuck'd between France 

and Spain, 
His in whose hand she drops ; Harry 

of Bolingbroke 
Had holpen Richard's tottering 

throne to stand. 
Could Harry have foreseen that all 

our nobles 
W^ould perish on the civil slaughter- 
field, 
And leave the people naked to the 

crown, 
And the crown naked to the people ; 

the crown 
Female, too ! Sir, no woman's regimen 
Can save us. We are fallen, and as I 

think. 
Never to rise again. 

Stafford. You are too black- 
blooded. 
I'd make a move myself to hinder 

that : 
I know some lusty fellows there in 

France. 
Bagenhall. You would but make us 

weaker, Thomas Stafford. 
Wyatt was a good soldier, yet he 

fail'd, 
And strengthen'd Philip. 

Stafford. Did not his last breath 
Clear Courtenay and the Princess 

from the charge 
Of being his co-rebels ? 

Bagenhall. Ay, but then 

What such a one as Wyatt says is 

nothing : 
We have no men among us. The new 

Lords 
Are quieted with their sop of Abbey- 
lands, 
And ev'n before the Queen's face 

Gardiner buys them 
With Philip's gold. All greed, no 

faith, no courage ! 
Why, ev'n the liaughty prince, North- 

imiberland, 
The leader of our Reformation, 

knelt 
And blubber'd like a lad, and on the 

scaffold 
Recanted, and resold himself to Rome. 



472 



QUEEN MARY. 



Stafford. I swear you do your 
country wrong, Sir Ralph. 
I know a sot of exiles over there, 
Dare-devils, that would eat fire and 

spit it out 
At Philip's beard : t\wy pillage Spain 

already. 
The French King winks at it. An 

hour will come 
When they will sweep her from the 

seas. No men i 
Did not Loi-d Suffolk die like a true 

man ? 
Is not Lord William Howard a true 

man 1 
Yea, you yourself, altho' you are 

black-blooded : 
And I, by God, believe myself a man. 
Ay, even in the church there is a 

man — 
Cranmer. 
Y\y would he not, Avhen all men bade 

him fly. 
And what a letter he wrote against 

the Pope ! 
There's a brave man, if any. 

BcKjenhall. Ay ; if it hold. 

Croird (comivfi on). God save their 

Graces ! 
Stafford. Bagenhall, I see 
The Tudor green and white. {Trum- 
pets.) They are coming now. 
And here's a crowd as thick as her- 
ring-shoals. 
Bagenhall. Be limpets to this pillar, 
or we are torn 
Down the strong wave of brawlers. 
Crowd. God save their Graces ! 
[^Procession of Trumpeters, Jave- 
lin-men, etc. ; then Spanish and 
Flemish Nobles intermingled. 
Stafford. Worth seeing, Bagenhall ! 
These black dog-Dons 
Garb themselves bravely. Who's the 

long-face there. 
Looks very Spain of very Spain ? 

Bagenhall. The Duke 

Of Alva, an iron soldier. 

Stafford. And the Dutchman, 

Now laughing at some jest 1 

Bagenhall. William of Orange, 

William the Silent. 

Stafford. Why do they call him so ? 
Bagenhall. He keeps, they say, 
some secret that may cost 
Philip his life. 

Stafford. But then he looks so 

merry. 
Bagenhall. I cannot tell you why 
they call him so. 
\_The King and Queen pass, at- 
tended by Peers of the Realm, 
Officers of State, etc. Cannon 
shot off. 
Crowd. Philip and Mary, Philip 
and Mary ! 



Long live the King and Queen, Philip 
and Mary ! 
Stafford. They smile as if content 

with one another. 
Bagenhall. A smile abroad is oft a 
scowl at home. 
[King and Queen jmss on. Pro- 
cession. 
First Citizen. I thought this Philip 
had been one of those black devils of 
Spain, but he hath a yellow beard. 
Second Citizen. Not red like 

Iscariot's. 
First Citizen. Like a carrot's, as 
thou say'st, and English carrot's better 
than SiJanish licorice ; but I thought 
he was a beast. 

Third Citizen. Certain I had heard 
that every Spaniard carries a tail like 
a devil under his trunk-hose. 

Tailor. Ay, but see what trunk- 
hoses ! Lord ! they be fine ; I never 
stitch'd none such. They make amends 
for the tails. 

Fourth Citizen. Tut! every Span- 
ish priest will tell you that all Eng- 
lish heretics have tails. 

Fifth Citizen. Death and the Devil 
— if he find I have one — 

Fourth Citizen. Lo ! thou hast 
call'd tliem up ! here they come — a 
pale horse for Death and Gardiner 
for the Devil. 

Enter Gardiner (turning hack from 
the procession ) . 

Gardiner. Knave, wilt thou wear 

thy cap before the Queen ? 
il/o». My Lord, I stand so squeezed 
among the crowd 
I cannot lift ni}- hands unto my head. 
Gardiner. Knock off his cap there, 
some of you about him ! 
See there be others that can use their 

hands. 
Thou art one of Wyatt's men 1 

Man. No, my Lord, no. 

Gardiner. Thy name, thou knave ? 
Man. I am nobody, my Lord. 

Gardiner {shouting). God's passion ! 

knave, thy name i 
Man. I have ears to hear. 

Gardiner. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee 
ears to hear. 
Find out his name and bring it me (to 
Attendant). 
Attendant. Ay, my Lord. 

Gardiner. Knave, thou shalt lose 
thine ears and find thy tongue. 
And shalt be thankful if I leave thee 
that. [Coming before the Conduit. 
The conduit painted — the nine wor- 
thies — ay ! 
But then what's here ? King Harry 
with a scroll. 



QUEEN MARY. 



473 



Ka — Verbum Dei — verbum — word 

of God! 
God's passion ! do you know the knave 
that painted it ? 
Attendant. I do, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Tell him to paint it out, 
And put some fresh device in lieu of 

it — 
A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir; 

ha ? 
There is no heresy there. 

Attendant. I will, my Lord ; 

The man shall paint a pair of gloves. 

I am sure 
(Knowing tlie man) he wrought it 

ignorantly. 
And not from any malice. 

Gardiner. Word of God 

In English ! over this the brainless 

loons 
That cannot spell Esaias from St. 

Paul, 
Make themselves drunk and mad, fly 

out and flare 
Into rebellions. I'll liave their bibles 

burnt. 
The bible is the priest's. Ay ! fellow, 

what ! 
Stand staring at me ! shout, you gap- 
ing rogue ! 
3Ian. I have, my Lord, shouted till 

I am hoarse. 
Gardiner. What hast thou shouted, 

knave ? 
Man. Long live Queen Mary ! 

Gardiner. Knave, there be two, 
There be both King and Queen. 
Philip and Mary. Shout ! 

Man. Nay, but, my Lord, 

The Queen comes first, Mary and 
Philip. 
Gardiner. Shout, then, 

Mary and Philip ! 

Man. Mary and Philip ! 

Gardiner. Now, 

Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, 

shout for mine ! 
Philip and Mary ! 

Man. Must it be so, my Lord 1 

Gardiner. Ay, knave. 
Man. Philip and Mary ! 

Gardiner. I distrust thee. 

Thine is a half voice and a lean 

assent. 
What is thy name ? 

Man. Sanders. 

Gardiner. What else ? 

Man. Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner. Where dost thou live 'i 
Man. In Cornhill. 

Gardiner. Where, knave, where ? 
Man. Sign of the Talbot. 
Gardiner. Come to me to-morrow. — 
Rascal ! this land is like a hill of 

fire, 
One crater opens when another shuts. 



But so I get the laws against tlie 

heretic, 
Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
And others of our Parliament, revived, 
I will show fire on my side — stake 

and fire — 
Sharp work and short. The knaves 

are easily cow'd. 
Follow their Majesties. 

[^Exit. The crowd folloirintj. 
Bagenhail. As proud as Becket. 

Stafford. You would not have him 

murder'd as Becket was 1 
Bagenhail. No — murder fathers 

murder: but I say 
There is no man — there was one 

woman with us — 
It was a sin to love her married, dead 
I cannot choose but love her. 

Stafford. Lady Jane '. 

Crowd ((joinrj off). God save their 

Graces ! 
Stafford. Did you see lier die ? 

Bar/enha/l. No, no ; her innocent 

blood had blmded me. 
You call me too black-blooded — true 

enough 
Her dark dead blood is in my heart 

with mine. 
If ever I cry out against the Pope 
Her dark dead blood that ever moves 

with mine 
Will stir the living tongue and make 

the cry. 
Stafford. Yet doubtless you can tell 

me how she died ' 
Bagenhail. Seventeen — and knew 

eight languages — in music 
Peerless — her needle perfect, and her 

learning 
Beyond the churchmen ; yet so meek, 

so modest, 
So wife-like humble to the trivial boy 
Mismatch'd with her for policy! I 

have heard 
She would not take a last farewell of 

him. 
She fear'd it might unman him for his 

end. 
She could not be unmann'd — no, nor 

outwoman'd — 
Seventeen — a rose of grace ! 
Girl never breathed to rival such 

a rose ; 
Rose never blew that equall'd sucli a 

bud. 
Stafford. Pray you go on. 
Bagenhail. She came upon the scat- 

fold. 
And said she was condemn'd to die 

for treason ; 
She had but follow'd the device of 

those 
Her nearest kin : she thought they 

knew the laws. 



474 



QUEEN MARY. 



But for herself, she knew but little 

law, 
And nothing of the titles to the" 

ci'own ; 
She had no desire for that, and wrung 

her hands, 
And trusted God would save her thro' 

the blood 
Of Jesus Christ alone. 

Stafford. Pray you go on. 

Baijenliall. Then knelt and said the 

Miserere jMei — 
But all in English, mark you ; rose 

again, 
And, when the headsman pray'd to be 

forgiven, 
Said " You will give me my true crown 

at last, 
But do it quickly ; " then all wept but 

she. 
Who changed not color when she saw 

the block. 
But ask'd him, childlike : " Will you 

take it off 
Before I lay me down ? " " No, 

madam," he said. 
Gasping ; and when her innocent eyes 

were bound, 
She, with her poor blind hands feel- 
ing — " where is it 1 
Where is it "? " — You must fancy that 

which follow'd. 
If you have heart to do it ! 

Cron-d (in t/ie distance). God save 

their Graces! 
Stafford. Their Graces, our dis- 
graces ! God confound them ! 
Why, she's grown bloodier! when I 

last was here. 
This was against her conscience — 

would be murder ! 
Bar/enhall. The " Tliou shalt do no 

murder," which God's hand 
Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd 

out pale — 
She covild not make it white — and 

over that. 
Traced in the blackest text of Hell — 

" Thou shalt ! " 
And sign'd it — Mary ! 

Stafford. Philip and the Pope 
Must have sign'd too. I hear this 

Legate's coming 
To bring us absolution from the Pope. 
The Lords and Commons will bow 

down before him — 
You are of the house '( what will you 

do, Sir Ralph? 
Barjenliall. And why should I be 

bolder than the rest, 
Or honester than all 1 

Staffhrd. But, sir, if I — 

And oversea they say this state of 

yours 
Hath no more mortice than a tower of 

cards; 



And that a i)uff would do it — then 

if I 
And others made that move I touch'd 

upon, 
Back'd by the power of France, and 

landing here. 
Came with a sudden splendor, shout, 

and show, 
And dazzled men and deafen'd by 

some bright 
Loud venture, and the people so un- 
quiet — 
And I the race of murder'd Bucking- 
ham — 
Not for myself, but for the kingdom 

— Sir, 
I trust that you would fight along 

with us. 
Bagenhall. No ; you would fling 

your lives into the gulf. 
Stafford. But if this Philip, as he's 

like to do, 
Left Mary a wife-widow here alone, 
Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads 

hither 
To seize upon the forts and fleet, and 

make us 
A Spanish province ; would you not 

fight then ? 
Baqenhall. I think I should fight 

then. 
Stafford. I am sure of it. 
Hist ! there's the face coming on here 

of one 
Who knows me. I must leave you. 

Fare you well. 
You'll hear of me again. 

Bagenhall. Upon the scaffold. 

\_Exeunt. 



SCENE IL — Room in Whitehall 
Palace. 

Mary. Enter Philip and 
Cardinal Pole. 

Pole. Ave Maria, gratia plena,Bene- 

dicta tuin mulieribus. 
Mari/. Loyal and royal cousin, 
humblest thanks. 

Had you a pleasant voyage up the 
river ? 
Pole. AVe had your royal barge, and 
that same chair, 

Or rather throne of purple, on the deck. 

Our silver cross sparkled before the 
prow. 

The ripples twinkled at their diamond- 
dance, 

The boats that follow'd, were as glow- 
ing-gay 

As regal gardens ; and your flocks of 
swans. 

As fair and white as angels ; and your 
shores 



QUEEN MARY. 



475 



Wore in mine eyes the green of Para- 
dise. 
My foreign friends, who dream'd us 

blanketed 
In ever-closing fog, were much amazed 
To find as fair a sun as might have 

rtash'd 
Upon their lake of Garda, fire the 

Thames ; 
Our voyage by sea was all but miracle ; 
And here the river flowing from the 

sea. 
Not toward it (for they thought not 

of our tides), 
Seem'd as a happy miracle to make 

glide — ■ 
In quiet — home your banish'd coun- 
tryman. 
Mary. We heard that you were 

sick in Flanders, cousin. 
Pole. A dizziness. 
Mar If. And how came 

you round again ? 
Pole. The scarlet thread of Rahab 

saved her life ; 
And mine, a little letting of the blood. 
Mary. Well ? now ? 
Pole. Ay, cousin, as 

the heathen giant 
Had but to touch the ground, his 

force return'd — 
Thus, after twenty years of banish- 
ment. 
Feeling my native land beneath my 

foot, 
I said thereto : " Ah, native land of 

mine, 
Thou art much beholden to this foot 

of mine, 
That hastes with full commission from 

the Pope 
To absolve thee from thy guilt of 

heresy. 
Thou hast disgraced me and attainted 

me. 
And mark'd me ev'n as Cain, and I 

return 
As Peter, but to bless thee : make me 

well." 
Methinks the good land heard me, 

for to-day 
My heart beats twenty, when I see 

you, cousin. 
Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's 

death, 
How oft hath Peter knock'd at Marj^'s 

gate ! 
And Mary would have risen and let 

him in, 
But, Mary, there were those within 

the house 
Who would not have it. 

Mary. True, good cousin Pole ; 

And there were also those without the 

house 
Who would not liave it. 



Pole. I believe so, cousin. 

State-policy and church-policy are 

conjoint. 
But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. 
I fear the Emperor much misvalued 

me. 
But all is well ; 'twas ev'n the will of 

God, 
Who, waiting till the time had ripen 'd, 

now, 
Makes me his mouth of holy greet- 
ing. " Hail, 
Daughter of God, and saver of the 

faith. 
Sit benedictus f ructus ventris tui ! " 
Mary. Ah, heaven ! 
Pole. Unwell, your Grace ? 

Mary. No, cousin, happy — 

Happy to see you ; never yet so happy 
Since I was crown'd. 

Pole. Sweet cousin, you forget 

That long low minster where you 

gave your hand 
To this great Catholic King. 

Philip. Well said, Lord Legate. 

ifary. Nay, not well said; I thought 

of you my liege, 
Ev'n as I spoke. 

Philip. Ay, Madam; my Lord Paget 
Waits to present our Council to tlie 

Legate. 
Sit down here, all ; Madam, between 

us you. 
Pole. Lo, now you are enclosed 

with boards of cedar, 
Our little sister of the Song of Songs ! 
You are doubly fenced and shielded 

sitting here 
Between the two most high-set thrones 

on earth, 
The Emperor's highness happily sym- 

boll'd by 
The King your husband, the Pope's 

Holiness 
By mine own self. 

Mary. True, cousin, I am happy. 
When will you that we summon both 

our houses 
To take this absolution from your lips. 
And be regather'd to the Papal fold 1 
Pole. In Britain's calendar the 

brightest day 
Beheld our rough forefathers break 

their Gods, 
And clasp the faith in Christ ; but 

after that 
Might not St. Andrew's be her hap- 
piest day ? 
Afary. Then these shall meet upon 

St. Andrew's day. 

Enter Paget, icho presents the Council. 
Dumb show. 

Pole. I am an old man wearied witli 
my journey, 



476 



QUEEN MARY. 



Ev'n witli my joy. Permit me to with- 
draw. 
To Lambeth ? 

Philip. Ay, Lambeth has ousted 
Cranmer. 
It was not meet the heretic swine 

should live 
In Lambeth. 

Mary. There or anywhere, or at all. 
Philip. We have had it swept and 

garnish'd after him. 
Pole. Not for the seven devils to 

enter in '. 
Phi/i/). No, for we trust they parted 

in the swine. 
Pole. True, and I am the Angel of 
the Pope. 
Farewell, your Graces. 

Philip. Nay, not here — to me; 

I will go with you to the waterside. 
Pole. Not be my Charon to the 

counter side 1 
Philip. No, my Lord Legate, the 

Lord Chancellor goes. 
Pole. And unto no dead world ; but 
Lambeth palace. 
Henceforth a centre of the living faith. 
[Exeunt Philip, Pole, Paget, etc. 

Manet Mary. 

Mary. He hath awaked! he hath 
awaked ! 

He stirs within the darkness ! 

Oh, Philip, husband ! now thy love to 
mine 

Will cling more close, and those bleak 
manners thaw. 

That make me shamed and tongue- 
tied in my love. 

The second Prince of Peace — 

The great unborn defender of the 
Faith, 

Who will avenge me of mine ene- 
mies — 

He comes, and my star rises. 

The stormy Wyatts and Northumber- 
lands. 

The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, 

And all her fieriest partisans — are 
pale 

Before my star ! 

The light of this new learning wanes 
and dies : 

The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius 
fade 

Into the deathless hell which is their 
doom 

Before my star ! 

His sceptre shall go forth from Ind 
to Ind ! 

His sword shall hew the heretic peo- 
ples doAvn ! 

His faith shall clothe the world that 
will be his. 

Like universal air and sunshine ! Open, 



Ye everlasting gates 1 

here ! — 
My star, my son ! 



The King is 



Enter Philip, Duke of Alva, etc. 

Oh, Philip, come with me ; 
Good news have I to tell you, news to 

make 
Both of us happy — a}% the Kingdom 

too. 
Nay come with me — one moment ! 

Philip (to Alva). More than that : 
There was one here of late — William 

the Silent 
They call him — he is free enough in 

talk. 
But tells me nothing. You will be, 

we trust. 
Sometime the viceroy of those 

provinces — 
He must deserve his surname better. 

Alva. Ay, sir; 

Inherit the Great Silence. 

Phili]). True ; the provinces 

Are hard to rule and must be hardly 

ruled ; 
Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty 

rind, 
Allhollow'doutM'ith stinging heresies ; 
And for their heresies, Alva, they will 

fight ; 
You must break them or they break 

you. 
Alva {proudly). The first. 

Philip. Good ! 
Well, Madam, this new happiness of 

mine '? [Exeunt. 

Enter Three Pages. 

First Page. News, mates! a miracle, 
a miracle ! news ! 
The bell must ring ; Te Deums must 

be sung ; 
The Queen hath felt the motion of her 
babe ! 
Second Page. Ay ; but see here ! 
First Page. See what '? 

Second Page. This paper, Dickon. 
I found it fluttering at .the palace 

gates : — 
" The Queen of England is delivered 
of a dead dog !" 
Third Page. These are the things 
that madden her. Fie upon it ! 
First Page. Ay; but I hear she 
hath a dropsy, lad, 
Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it. 
Third Page. Fie on her dropsy, so 
she have a dropsy ! 
I know that she was ever sweet to me. 
First Paqe. For thou and thine are 

Roman to the core. 
Third Page. So thou and thine must 

be. Take heed ! 
Fn-.s7 Patje. Not I, 



QUEEN MARY. 



^11 



And whether this flash of nx?ws be 

false or true. 
So the wine run, and there be revelry, 
Content am I. Let all the steeples 

clash, 
Till the sun dance, as upon Easter Day. 
\_ExeVint. 

SCENE III. — Great Hall in 
Whitehall. 

At the far end a dais. On fhi.s three 
chairs, two under one ca7wpi/for Mary 
and Philip, another on the right of 
these for Pole. Under the dais on 
Pole's side, ranged along the wall, sit 
alt the Spiritual Peers, and along the 
irrill opposite, all the Temporal. The 
Commons on cross benches in front, a 
line of approach to the dais between 
them, hi the foreground. Sir Ralph 
Bagenhall and other Members c^ 
the Commons. 

First Member. St. Andrew's day ; 

sit close, sit close, we are friends. 
Is reconciled the word ? the Pope 

again ? 
It must be thus ; and yet, cocksbody ! 

how strantje 
That Gardiner, once so one with all of us 
Against this foreign marriage, should 

have yielded 
So utterly ! — strange ! but stranger 

still that he. 
So fierce against the Headship of the 

Pope, 
Should play the second actor in this 

pageant 
That brings him in ; such a cameleon 

hef 
Second Member. This Gardiner 

turn'd his coat in Henry's time ; 
The serpent that hath slough'd will 

slough again. 
Third Member. Tut, then we all are 

serpents. 
Second Member. Speak for yourself. 
Third Member. Ay, and for Gar- 
diner ! being English citizen, 
How should he bear a bridegroom 

out of Spain 1 
The Queen would have him ! being 

English churchman 
How should he bear the headship of 

the Pope ? 
The Queen would have it ! Statesmen 

that are wise 
Shape a necessity, as a sculptor clay, 
To their own model. 

Second Member. Statesmen that are 

wise 
Take truth herself for model. What 

say you? [To Sir Ralph 

Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall. We talk and talk. 



First Member. Ay, and what use to 

talk ? 
Philip's no sudden alien — the Queen's 

husband, 
He's here, and king, or will be — yet 

cocksbody ! 
So hated here ! I watch'd a hive of 

late; 
My seven-years' friend was with me, 

my young boy ; 
Out crept a wasp, with half the swarm 

behind. 
" Philip ! " says he. I had to cuff the 

rogue 
For infant treason. 

Third Member. But they say that 

bees. 
If any creeping life invade their hive 
Too gross to be thrust out, will build 

him round, 
And bind him in from harming of 

their combs. 
And Philip by these articles is bound 
From stirring hand or foot to wrong 

the realm. 
Second Member. By bonds of bees- 
wax, like your creeping thing ; 
But your wise bees had stung him first 

to death. 
Third Member. Hush, hush ! 
You wrong the Chancellor : the clauses 

added 
To that same treaty which the em- 
peror sent us 
Were mainly Gardiner's : that no for- 
eigner 
Hold ofliice in the household, fleet, 

forts, army ; 
That if the Queen should die without 

a child, 
The bond between the kingdoms be 

dissolved ; 
That Philip should not mix us any way 
With his French wars — 

Second Member. Ay, ay, but what 

security, 

Good sir, for this, if Philip 

Third Member. Peace — the Queen, 
Philip, and Pole. [All rise, and stand. 



Enter Mary, Philip, and Pole. 

[Gardiner conducts them to the three 
chairs of state. Philip sits on the 
Queen's left, Pole on her right. 
Gardiner. ( )ur short-lived sun, before 

his winter plunge. 
Laughs at the last red leaf, and An- 
drew's Day. 
Mary. Should not this day be held 
in after years 
More solemn than of old ? 

Philip. Madam, my wish 

Echoes your Majesty's. 

Pole. It shall be so. 



478 



QUEEN MARY. 



Gardiner. Mine echoes both your 
Graces' ; {aside) but the 
Pope — 

Can we not have the Catholic church 
as well 

Without as with tlie Italian ? if we 
cannot, 

AYhy then the Pope. 

My lords of the upper house, 

And ye, my masters, of the lower 
house, 

Do ye stand fast by that which ye re- 
solved ? 
Voices. We do. 

Gardiner. And be you all one mind 
to supplicate 

The Legate here for pardon, and ac- 
knowledge 

The primacy of the Pope ? 

Voices. We are all one mind. 

Gardiner. Then must I play the 
vassal to this Pole. [^4s/A>. 
\_Iie d?-aivs a paper from under his 
robes and presents it to the King 
and Queen, irho look through it 
and return it to him ; then as- 
cends a tribune, and reads. 

We, the Lords Spiritual and Tempo- 
ral, 

And Commons here in Parliament as- 
sembled. 

Presenting the wliole body of this 
realm 

Of England, and dominions of the 
same. 

Do make most humble suit unto your 
Majesties, 

In our own name and that of all the 
state, 

That by your gracious means and in- 
tercession 

Our supplication be exhibited 

To the Lord Cardinal Pole, sent here 
as Legate 

From our most Holy Father Julius, 
Pope, 

And from the Apostolic see of Eome ; 

And do declare our penitence and 
grief 

For our long schism and disobedience, 

Either in making laws and ordinances 

Against the Holy Father's primacy, 

Or else by doing or by speaking aught 

Which might impugn or prejudice the 
same; 

By this our supplication promising. 

As well for our own selves as all the 
realm, 

That now we be and ever shall be 
quick. 

Under and with your Majesties' au- 
thorities. 

To do to the utmost all that in us 
lies 

Towards the abrogation and repeal 

Of all such laws and ordinances made ; 



Whereon we humbly jjray your Maj- 
esties, 
As persons undefiled with our offence, 
So to set forth this humble suit of ours 
That we the rather by your interces- 
sion 
May from the Apostolic see obtain. 
Thro' this most reverend Father, ab- 
solution. 
And full release from danger of all 

censures 
Of Holy Church that we be fall'n into, 
So that we may, as children penitent. 
Be once again received into the bosom 
And unity of Universal Clmrch ; 
And that this noble realm thro' after 

years 
May in this unity and obedience 
Unto the holy see and reigning Pope 
Serve God and both your Majesties. 

Voices. Amen. [All sit. 

4 [He arjain presents the petition to 

the King and Queen, who hand 

it reverential! 1/ to Pole. 

Pole (sittiufj). This is the loveliest 

day that ever smiled 

On England. xVll her breath should, 

incenselike. 
Rise to the heavens in grateful praise 

of Him 
Who now recalls her to His ancient 

fold. 
Lo! once again God to this realm 

hath given 
A token of His more especial Grace ; 
For as this people were the first of all 
The islands call'd into the dawning 

church 
Out of the dead, deep night of heath- 
endom, 
So now are these the first whom God 

hath given 
Grace to repent and sorrow for their 

schism ; 
And if your penitence be not mockery. 
Oh how tiie blessed angels who rejoice 
Over one saved do triumph at this hour 
In the reborn salvation of a land 
So noble. [A pause. 

For ourselves we do protest 
That our commission is to heal, not 

harm ; 
We come not to condemn, but recon- 
cile ; 
We come not to compel, but call again ; 
We come not to destroy, but edify ; 
Nor yet to question things already 

done ; 
These are forgiven — matters of the 

past — 
And range with jetsam and with offal 

thrown 
Into the blind sea of forgetfulness. 

[A pause. 
Ye have roA-^ersed the attainder laid 
on us 



QUEEN MARY. 



479 



By him who sack'd the liouse of God ; 
and we, 

Amplier than any field on our poor 
earth 

Can render tlianks in fruit for being 
sown, 

Do liere and now repay you sixty-fold, 

A hundred, vea, a thousand thousand- 
fold, ' 

With lieaven for earth. 

^Rising and stretr/iinr/ forth his 
hands. All kneel hut Sir Ralph 
Bagenliall, wlto rises and re- 
mains stdndinrj. 
The Lord who liatii redeem'd us 

With His own blood, and wasli'd us 
from our sins. 

To purchase for Himself a stainless 
bride ; 

He, whom the Fatlier hath appointed 
Head 

Of all his church, He by His mercy 
absolve j'ou ! [^4 pause. 

And we by that authority Apostolic 

Given unto us, liis Legate, by the Pope, 

Our Lord and Holy Father, Julius, 

God's Vicar and Vicegerent upon 
earth. 

Do here absolve you and deliver 
you 

And every one of you, and all the 
realm 

And its dominions from all heresy, 

All schism, and from all and every 
censure, 

Judgment, and pain accruing there- 
upon; 

And also we restore you to the bosom 

And unity of Universal Church. 

[Tui-ninr/ to Gardiner. 

Our letters of commission will declare 
this plainlier. 
[Queen heard sohhing. Cries of 
Amen ! Amen ! Some of the 
Members embrace one another. 
All but Sir Ralph Bagenhall 
pass out into the neighborinq 
chapel, whence is heard the Te 
Deum. 
Bagenhall. We strove against the 
papacy from the first, 

In William's time, in our first Ed- 
ward's time, 

And in my master Henry's time ; but 
now, 

The unity of Universal Church, 

Mary would have it ; and this Gardi- 
ner follows ; 

The unity of L'niversal Hell, 

Philip would have it ; and this Gardi- 
ner follows ! 
A Parliament of imitative apes ! 

Sheep at the gap which Gardiner 

takes, who not 
Believes the Pope, nor any of them 
believe — 



These spaniel-Spaniard English of t!ie 

time, 
Wlio rulj their fawning noses in the 

dust. 
For that is Philip's gold-dust, and adore 
This Vicar of their Vicar. Would I 

had been 
Born Spaniard ! I had held my head 

up then. 
I am ashamed that I am Bagenhall, 
English. 

Enter Officer. 

Officer. Sir Ralph Bagenhall ! 
Bagenhall. What of that ? 

Ojficer. You were the one sole man 
in either liouse 
Who stood upriglit when both the 
houses fell. 
Bagenhall. The houses fell ! 
Officer. I mean the houses knelt 
Before the Legate. 

Bagenhall. Do not scrimp your 
phrase, 
But stretcli it wider ; say when Eng- 
land fell. 
Officer. I say y<;u were the one sole 

man who stood. 
Bagenhall. I am the one sole man 
in either house. 
Perchance in England, loves her like 
a son. 
Officer. Well, you one man, because 
you stood upright. 
Her Grace the Queen commands you 
to the Tower. 
Bagenhall. As traitor, or as heretic, 

or for what ? 
Officer. If any man in any way 
would be 
The one man, he shall be soto his cost. 
Bagenliall. What! will she have 

my head ? 
Officer. A round fine likelier. 

Your pardon. [Calling to Attendant. 
By the river to the Tower. [Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. — Whitehall. A koom 
IN THE Palace. 

Mart, Gardiner, Pole, Paget, 
Bonner, etc. 

Marif. The King and I, my Lords, 
now that all traitors 

Against our royal state have lost the 
heads 

Wherewith they plotted in their trea- 
sonous malice. 

Have talk'd together, and are well 
agreed 

That those old statutes touching 
Lollardism 

To bring tlie heretic to the stake, 
should be 



480 



QUEEN MARY. 



No longer a dead letter, but requick- 

en'd. 
One of the Council. Why, what hath 

fluster'd Gardiner ? how he rubs 
His forelock ! 
Pac/et. I have changed a word with 

liim 
In coming, and may change a word 

again. 
Oardiner. Madam, your Highness 

is our sun, the King 
And you together our two suns in 

one; 
And so the beams of both may shine 

upon us, 
The faith that seem'd to droop will 

feel 3'our light, 
Lift head, and flourish ; yet not light 

alone. 
There must be heat — there must be 

heat enough 
To scorch and wither heresy to tlie 

root. 
For what saith Christ ? " Compel 

them to come in." 
And what saith Paul ? "I would 

they were cut off 
That trouble you." Let the dead let- 
ter live ! 
Trace it in fire, that all the louts to 

whom 
Their A B C is darkness, clowns and 

grooms 
May read it ! so you quash rebellion 

too, 
For heretic and traitor are all one : 
Two vipers of one breed — an amphis- 

bcena, 
Each end a sting : Let the dead letter 

burn ! 
Paget. Yet there be some disloyal 

Catholics, 
And many heretics loyal; heretic 

throats 
Cried no God-bless-her to the Lady 

Jane, 
But shouted in Queen Mary. So there 

l)e 
Some traitor-heretic, there is axe and 

cord. 
To take tlie lives of others that are 

loyal, 
And by the cliurchnian's pitiless doom 

of fire. 
Were but a thankless jjolicy in the 

crown. 
Ay, and against itself ; for there are 

many. 
Mary. If we could burn out here- 
sy, my Lord Paget, 
We reck not tho' we lost this cro\\Ti 

of England — 
Ay ! tho' it were ten Englands ! 

Gardiner. Right, your Grace. 

Paget, you are all for tliis poor life of 

ours. 



And care but little for fbe life to 

be. 
Pdf/et. I have some time, for curi- 

ousness, my Lord, 
Watch'd children playing at their life 

to be. 
And cruel at it, killing helpless flies ; 
Such is our time — all times for aught 

I knoAv. 
Gardiner. We kill the heretics 

that sting the soul — 
They, with right reason, flies tliat 

prick the flesh. 
Paget. They had not reach'd right 

reason ; little children ! 
They kill'd but for their pleasure and 

the power 
They felt in killing. 

Gardiner. A spice of Satan, ha ! 
Why, good ! what then ? granted ! — 

we are fallen creatures ; 
Look to your Bible, Paget ! we are 

fallen. 
Paget. I am but of the laity, my 

Lord Bishop, 
And may not read your Bible, yet I 

found 
One day, a wholesome scripture, 

" Little children. 
Love one another." 

Gardiner. Did j-ou find a scripture, 
" I come not to bring peace but a 

sword " ? The sword 
Is in lier Grace's hand to smite with. 

Paget, 
You stand up here to fight for heresy. 
You are more than guess'd at as a 

heretic. 
And on the steep-up track of the true 

faith 
Your lapses are far seen. 

Paget. Tlie faultless Gardiner ! 

Mary. You brawl beyond the ques- 
tion ; speak. Lord Legate ! 
Pole. Indeed, I cannot follow with 

your Grace : 
Eather would say — the shepherd 

doth not kill 
The sheep that wander from his fiock, 

but sends 
His careful dog to bring them to the 

fold. 
Look to the Netherlands, wherein 

have been 
Such holocausts of heresy J, to M'hat 

end? 
For yet the faith is not established 

there. 
Gardiner. The end's not come. 
Pole. No — nor this way 

will come, 
Seeing there lie two ways to every 

end, 
Abetter and a worse — the worse is 

here 
To persecute, because to persecute 



QUEEN MARY. 



481 



Makes a faith hated, and is further- 
more 
No perfect witness of a perfect faith 
In him who persecutes : when men are 

tost 
On tides of strange opinion, and not 

sure 
Of their own selves, they are wroth 

with their own selves, 
And thence with others ; then, who 

lights the faggot ? 
Not the full faith, no. but the lurking 

doubt. 
Old Rome, that first made martyrs in 

the Church, 
Trembled for her own gods, for these 

were trembling — 
But when did our Rome tremble ? 

Paget. Did she not 

In Henry's time and Edward's ? 

Pole. What, my Lord 1 

The Church on Peter's rock 1 never! 

I have seen 
A pine in Italy that cast its shadow 
Athwart a cataract; firm stood the 

pine — 
The cataract shook the shadow. To 

my mind. 
The cataract typed the headlong 

plunge and fall 
Of heresy to the pit : the pine was 

Rome. 
You see, my Lords, 
It was the shadow of the Church that 

trembled ; 
Your church was but the shadow of a 

churcli ; 
Wanting the Papal mitre. 

Gardiner [muttering). Here be 

tropes. 
Pole. And tropes are good to clothe 

a naked truth, 
And make it look more seemly. 

Gardiner. Tropes again ! 

Pole. You are hard to please. Then 

without tropes, my Lord, 
An overmuch severeness, I repeat, 
When faith is wavering makes the 

waverer pass 
Into more settled hatred of the doc- 
trines 
Of those who rule, which hatred by 

and by 
Involves tlie ruler (thus there springs 

to light 
That Centaur of a monstrous Com- 
monweal, 
The traitor-heretic) then tho' some 

may quail. 
Yet others are that dare the stake and 

fire, 
And their strong torment bravely 

borne, begets 
An admiration and an indignation. 
And, hot desire to imitate; so the 

plague 



Of schism spreads ; were there but 

three or four 
Of these misleaders, yet I would not 

say 
Burn ! and we cannot burn whole 

towns ; they are many. 
As my Lord Paget says. 

Gardiner. Yet my Lord Cardinal — 
Pole. I am your Legate ; please you 

let me finish. 
Methinks that under our Queen's 

regimen 
We might go softlier than with crim- 
son rowel 
And streaming lash. When Herod- 
Henry first 
Began to batter at your English 

Church, 
This was the cause, and hence the 

judgment on her. 
She seethed with such adulteries, and 

the lives 
Of many among your churchmen were 

so foul 
That heaven wept and earth blush'd. 

I would advise 
That we should thoroughly cleanse 

the Church within 
Before these bitter statutes be requick- 

en'd. 
So after that when she once more is 

seen 
White as the light, the spotless bride 

of Christ, 
Like Christ himself on Tabor, i)os- 

sibly 
The Lutheran may be won to her 

again ; 
Till when, my Lords, I counsel toler- 
ance. 
Gardiner. What, if a mad dog bit 

your hand, my Lord, 
Would you not chop the bitten finger 

off. 
Lest your whole body should madden 

with the poison ? 
I would not, were I Queen, tolerate 

the heretic. 
No, not an hour. The ruler of a 

land 
Is bounden by his power and place to 

see 
His people be not poison'd. Tolerate 

them ! 
Why ? do they tolerate you ? Nay, 

many of them 
Would bm-n — have burnt each other ; 

call they not 
The one true faith, a loathsome idol- 
worship ? 
Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier 

crime 
Than heresy is itself ; beware, I say. 
Lest men accuse you of indifference 
To all faiths, all religion ; for you 

know 



482 



QUEEN MARY. 



Right well that you yourself have been 

supposed 
Tainted with Lutlieranism it Italy. 
Pole (angered). But you, my Lord, 

beyond all supposition, 
In clear and open day were congruent 
With that vile Cranmer in the ac- 
cursed lie 
Of good Queen Catherine's divorce — 

the spring 
Of all those evils that have flow'd 

upon us ; 
For you yourself have truckled to the 

tyrant. 
And done your best to bastardize our 

Queen, 
For which God's righteous judgment 

fell upon you 
In your five years of imprisonment, 

my Lord, 
Under young Edward. Who so bol- 

ster'd up 
The gross King's headship of the 

Church, or more 
Denied the Holy Father ! 

Gardiner. Ha ! what ! eh ? 

But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentle- 
man, 
A bookman, flying from the heat and 

tussle. 
You lived among your vines and 

oranges. 
In your soft Italy yonder ! You were 

sent for. 
You were appeal'd to, but you still 

preferr'd 
Your learned leisure. As for what I 

did 
I suffer'd and repented. You, Lord 

Legate 
And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now 

to learn 
That ev'n St. Peter in his time of fear 
Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my 

Lord. 
Pole. But not for five-and-twenty 

years, my Lord. 
Gardiner. Ha ! good ! it seems then 

I was summon'd hither 
But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, 

friend Bonner, 
And tell this learned Legate he lacks 

zeal. 
The Church's evil is not as the 

King's, 
Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The 

mad bite 
Must have the cautery — tell him — 

and at once. 
What would'st thou do hadst thou liis 

power, thou 
That la^'est so long in heretic lionds 

with me ; 
Would'st thou not burn and blast them 

root and branch ? 
Bonner. Ay, after you, mj' Lord. 



Gardiner. Nay, God's passion, be- 
fore me ! speak ! 
Bonner. I am on fire until I see 

them flame. 
Gardiner. Ay, the psalm-singing 

weavers, cobblers, scum — 
But this most noble prince Planta- 

genet, 
Our good Queen's cousin — dallying 

over seas 
Even when his brother's, nay, hi? 

noble mother's, 
Head fell — 

Pole. Peace, madman ! 

Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst 

not fathom. 
Thou Christian Bishoj), thou Lord 

Chancellor 
Of England ! no more rein upon thine 

anger 
Than any child I Thou niak'st me 

much ashamed 
That I was for a moment wroth at 

thee. 
Marij. I come for counsel and ye 

give me feuds, 
Like dogs that set to watch their mas- 
ter's gate, 
Fall, when the thief is ev'n within the 

walls, 
To worrying one another. My Lord 

Chancellor, 
You have an old trick of offending 

us ; 
And but that you are art and part 

with us 
In purging heresy, well we might, for 

this 
Your violence and much roughness to 

the Legate, 
Have shut you from our counsels. 

Cousin Pole, 
You are fresh from brighter lands. 

Retire with me. 
His Highness and mj'self (so you 

allow us) 
Will let you learn in peace and pri- 
vacy 
What power this cooler sun of Eng- 
land hath 
In breeding godless vermin. And 

pray Heaven 
That A^ou may see according to our 

sight. 
Come, cousin. 

\_Exeunt Queen and Pole, etc. 
Gardiner. Pole has the Plantagenet 

face. 
But not the force made them our 

migliticst kings. 
Fine ej^es — but melancholy, irreso- 
lute — . 
A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine 

beard. 
But a weak mouth, an indeterminate 

— ha ? 



QUEEN MARY. 



483 



Bonner. Well, a weak mouth, per- 
chance. 
Oardiner. And not like thine 
To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or 

raw. 
Bonner. I'd do my best, my Lord ; 

but yet tlie Legate 
Is here as Pope and Master of the 

Church, 
And if he go not with you — 

Gardiner. Tut, Master Bishop, 

Our bashful Legate, sa w'st not how he 

flush'd 1 
Touch him upon his old lieretical 

talk. 
He'll burn a diocese to prove his or- 
thodoxy. 
And let him call me truckler. In 

those times, 
Thou knowest we had to dodge, or 

duck, or die ; 
I kept my head for use of Holy 

Church ; 
And see you, we shall have to dodge 

again, 
And let the Pope trample our rights, 

and plunge 
His foreign fist into our island Churcli 
To plump the leaner pouch of Italy. 
For a time, for a time. 
Why ? that these statutes may be put 

in force, 
And that his fan may thoroughly 

purge his floor. 
Bonner. So then you hold the 

Pope — 
Gardiner. I hold the Pope ! 

What do I liold him ? what do I hold 

the Pope ? 
Come, come, the morsel stuck — this 

Cardinal's fault — 
I have gulpt it down. I am wholly 

for the Pope, 
Utterly and altogether for the Pope, 
The Eternal Peter of the changeless 

chair, 
Crown'd slave of slaves, and mitred 

king of kings, 
God upon earth ! what more ■? what 

would you have ? 
Hence, let's be gone. 

Enter Ushee. 

Usher. Well that you be not gone, 
My lord. The Queen, most wrotli at 

first witli you. 
Is now content to grant you full for- 
giveness. 
So that you ci-ave full pardon of the 

Legate. 
I am sent to fetch you. 

Gardiner. Doth Pole yield, sir, 
ha! 
Did you hear 'em ? were you by ? 
Usher. I cannot tell you. 



His bearing is so courtly-delicate ; 
And yet methinks he falters : their 

two Graces 
Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin 

him, 
So press on him the duty which as 

Legate 
He owes himself, and with such royal 

smiles — 
Gardiner. Smiles that burn men. 

Bonner, it will be carried. 
He falters, ha ] 'fore God, we change 

and change ; 
Men now are bow'd and old, the doc*- 

tors tell you. 
At tliree-score years ; then if we 

change at all 
We needs must do it quickly ; it is an 

age 
Of brief life, and brief purpose, and 

brief patience. 
As I have shown to-day. I am sorry 

for it 
If Pole be like to turn. Our old 

friend Cranmer, 
Your more especial love, hath turn'd 

so often, 
He knows not wliere he stands, which, 

if this pass. 
We two shall have to teach him ; let 

'em look to it, 
Cranmer and Hooper, Ridley and 

Latimer, 
Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is 

come. 
Their hour is hard at hand, their 

" dies Irge," 
Their "dies Ilia," which will test 

their sect. 
I feel it but a duty — you will find in 

it 
Pleasure as well as duty, worthy 

Bonner, — 
To test their sect. Sir, I attend the 

Queen 
To crave most humble pardon — of 

her most 
Royal, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin, 
\_Exeunt. 

SCENE V. — Woodstock. 

Elizabeth, Lady in Waiting. 

Elizabeth. So they have sent poor 

Courtenay over sea. 
Lady. And banisli'd us to Wood- 
stuck, and the fields. 
The colors of our Queen are green and 

white, 
These fields are only green, they make 
me gape. 
Elizabeth. There's wliitethorn, girl. 
Lady. Ay, for an hour in May. 

But court is always May, buds out in 
masques, 



4S4 



QUEEN MARY. 



Breaks into feather'd merriments, and 

flowers 
In silken pageants. Why do they 

keep us here ^ 
Why still suspect your Grace ? 

Elizabeth. Hard upon both. 

\^Writes on the ivindoiv with a diamond. 

Much suspected, of me 
Nothing proven can be. 

Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner. 

Lady. What hath your Highness 

written ; 
Elizabeth. A true rliyme. 

Lady. Cut with a diamond ; so to 

last like truth. 
Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last. 
Lady. But truth, they say, will out, 
So it must last. It is not like a word, 
That comes and goes in uttering. 

Elizabeth. Truth, a word ! 

The very Truth and very Word are 

one. 
But truth of story, which I glanced 

at, girl, 
Is like a word that comes from olden 

days, 
And passes thro' the peoples : every 

tongue 
Alters it passing, till it spells and 

speaks 
Quite other than at first. 

Lady. I do not follow. 

Elizabeth. How manj' names in the 
long sweep of time 
That so foreshortens greatness, may 

but hang 
On the chance mention of some fool 

that once 
Brake bread with us, perhaps : and 

my poor chronicle 
Is but of glass. Sir Henry Beding- 

field 
May split it for a spite. 

Lady. God grant it last, 

And witness to your Grace's innocence, 
Till doomsday melt it. 

Elizabeth. Or a second fire, 

Like that which lately crackled under- 
foot 
Andin this very chamber,f use the glass. 
And char us back again into the dust 
We spring from. Never peacock 

against rain 
Scream'd as j'ou did for water. 

Lady. And I got it. 

I woke Sir Henry — and he's true to 

you — 
I read his honest horror in his eyes. 
Elizabeth. Or true to you ? 
Lady. Sir Henry Bedingfield ! 

I will have no man true to me, your 

Grace, 
But one that pares his nails ; to me ? 
the clown ! 



Elizabeth. Out, girl ! you wrong a 

noble gentleman. 
Lady. For, like his cloak, his man- 
ners want the nap 

And gloss of court ; but of this fire he 
says, 

Nay swears, it was no wicked wilful- 
ness. 

Only a natural chance. 

Elizabeth. A chance — perchance 

One of those wicked wilfuls that men 
make, 

Nor shame to call it nature. Nay, I 
know 

They hunt my blood. Save for my 
daily range 

Among the pleasant fields of Holy 
Writ 

I might despair. But there hath 
some one come ; 

The house is all in movement. Hence, 
and see. \_Exit Lady. 

Milkmaid (singing icithout). 

Shame upon you, Robin, 

Shame upon you now ! 
Kiss me would you? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 

Daisies grow again, 

Kingcups blow again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow 

Robin came behind me, 

Kiss'd me well I vow ; 
Cuff him could I? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 

Swallows fly again, 

Cuckoos cry again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. 

Come, Robin, Robin, 

Come and kiss me now; 
Help it can I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow? 

Ringdoves coo again, 

All things woo again. 
Come behind and kiss me milking the cow ! 

Elizabeth. Eight honest and red- 
cheek'd ; Robin was violent, 

And she was crafty — a sweet vio- 
lence, 

And a sweet craft. I would I were a 
milkmaid, 

To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, 
bake, and die. 

Then have my simple headstone by 
the church, 

And all things lived and ended hon- 
estly. 

I could not if I would. I am Harry's 
daughter : 

Gardiner would have my head. They 
are not sweet. 

The violence and the craft that do 
divide 

The world of nature ; what is weak 
must lie; 

The lion needs but roar to guard his 
young; 

The lapwing lies, says "here" when 
tlicv are there. 



QUEEN MARY. 



4S5 



Threaten the chikl ; " I'll scourge you 

if you did it : " 
What weapon hath the cliild, save his 

soft tongue, 
To say " I did not ? " and my rod's the 

block. 
I never lay my head upon the pillow 
But that I think, " Wilt thpu lie there 

to-morrow ? " 
How oft the falling axe, that never 

fell, 
Hath sliock'd me back into the day- 
light trutli 
That it may fall to-day ! Those 

damp, black, dead 
Nights in the Tower; dead — with the 

fear of death 
Too dead ev'n for a death-watch ! 

Toll of a bell, 
Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a 

rat 
Affrighted me, and then delighted me, 
For there was life — And there was 

life in deatli — 
The little murder'd princes, in a pale 

light, 
Rose hand in hand, and whisper'd, 

" come away ! 
The civil wars are gone for ever- 
more : 
Thou last of all the Tudors, come 

away ! 
With us is peace ! " The last ? It 

was a dream ; 
I must not dream, not wink, but watch. 

She has gone. 
Maid Marian to her Robin — by and 

by 
Both happy ! a fox may filch a hen by 

night, 
And make a morning outcry in the 

yard ; 
But there's no Renard here to " catch 

her tripping." 
Catch me who can ; yet, sometime I 

have wisli'd 
That I were caught, and kill'd away 

at once 
Out of the flutter. The gray rogue, 

Gardiner, 
Went on his knees, and pray'd me to 

confess 
In Wvatt's business, and to cast my- 

■"self 
Upon the good Queen's mercy ; ay, 

when, my Lord 'i 
God save the Queen ! My jailor — 

Enter Sir Henry Bedingfield. 

Bedingfield. One, whose bolts, 

That jail you from free life, bar you 

from death. 
There haunt some Papist ruffians 

here about 
Would murder you. 



Elizabeth. I thank you heartily, sir. 
But I am royal, tho' your prisoner. 
And God hath blest or cursed me with 

a nose — 
Your boots are from the horses. 

Beding^fiehl. Ay, my Lady. 

When next there comes a missive 

from the Queen 
It shall be all my study for one hour 
To rose and lavender my horsiness, 
Before I dare to glance upon your 

Grace. 
Elizabeth. A missive from the 

Queen : last time she wrote, 
I had like to have lost my life : it 

takes my breath : 

God, sir, do you look upon your 

boots. 
Are you so small a man ? Help me : 

what think you, 
Is it life or death ? 

Bedincjjield. I thought not on my 

boots ; 
The devil take all boots were ever 

made 
Since man went barefoot. See, I lay 

it here. 
For I will come no nearer to your 

Grace ; 

[Laijing down the letter. 
And, whether it bring you bitter news 

or sweet, 
And God hath given your grace a 

nose, or not, 
I'll help you, if I may. 

Elizabeth. Your pardon, then ; 

It is the heat and narrowness of the 

cage 
That makes the captive testy ; with 

free wing 
The world were all one Araby. Leave 

me now. 
Will you, companion to mvself , sir 1 

Bedingjield. " Will I ? 

With most exceeding willingness, I 

will ; 
You know I never come till I be call'd. 

[Exit. 
Elizabetli. It lies there folded : is 

there venom in it ? 
A snake — and if I touch it, it may 

sting. 
Come, come, the worst ! 
Best wisdom is to know the worst at 

once. [Reads : 

"It is the King's wish, that 
you should v.'ed Prince Philibert of 
Savoy. You are to come to Court on 
the instant ; and think of this in your 
coming. 

"Mary the Queen." 

Think ! I have many thoughts ; 

1 think there may be birdlime here for 

me; 



486 



QUEEN MARY. 



I think" they fain would have me from 

the reahn ; 
I think the Queen may never bear a 

child ; 
1 think that I may be some time the 

Queen, 
Then, Queen indeed : no foreign prince 

or priest 
SliouUl till my throne, myself upon 

the steps. 
1 think 1 will not marry anyone, 
Specials not this landless Philibert 
Of Savoy ; but, if Philip menace me, 
I think "that I will play with Phili- 
bert, — 
As once the Holy Father did with 

mine, 
Before my father married my good 

mother, — 
For fear of Spain. 

Enter Lady. 

Lady. O Lord ! your Grace, your 
Grace, 
I feel so happy : it seems that w^e shall 

fly 

These bald, blank fields, and dance 

into tlie sun 
That shines on princes. 

Elizabkth. Yet, a moment since, 

I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing 

here. 
To kiss and cuff among the birds and 

flowers — 
A right rough life and healthful. 

Lad I/. But the wench 

Hath her own troubles ; she is w-eep- 

ing now; 
For the wrong Robin took her at her 

word. 
Then the cow kick'd, and all her milk 

was spilt. 
Your highness such a milkmaid ? 

Elizabeth. I had kept 

My Robins and my cows in sweeter 

order 
Had I been such. 

Lfidi/ (»■//////). And had your Grace 

a Robin ? 
Elizabeth. Come, come, you are 

chill here ; you want the sun 
That shines at court; make ready for 

the journey. 
Pray God, we 'scape the simstroke. 

Ready at once. [^Exeunt. 



SCENE VI. — LoxDON. A Room in 

THE PaL-iVCE. 

JjORD Petre and Lord William 
Howard. 

Petre. You cannot see the Queen. 
Renard denied her, 
Ev'n now to nie. 



Howard. Their Flemish go-between 

And all-in-all. I came to thank her 
Majesty 

For freeing my friend Bagenhall 
from the Tower ; 

A grace to me ! Mercy, that herb-of- 
grace, 

Flowers iiqw but seldom. 

Petre. Only now perhaps. 

Because the Queen hath been three 
days in tears 

For Philip's going — like the wild 
hedge-rose 

Of a soft winter, possible, not prob- 
able. 

However you have prov'n it. 

Howard. I must see her. 

Enter Renard. 

Renard. My Lords, you cannot see 

her Majesty. 
Hoicard. Why then the King ! for 

I would have him bring it 
Home to the leisure wisdom of his 

Queen, 
Before he go, that since these statutes 

past, 
Gardiner out-Gardiners Gardiner in 

his heat, 
Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own 

self — 
Beast ! — but thej' play with fire as 

children do. 
And burn the house. I know that 

these are breeding 
A fierce resolve and fixt heart-hate in 

men 
Against the King, the Queen, the 

Holy Father, 

The faith itself. Can I not see him ? 

Renard. Not now. 

And in all this, my Lord, her Majesty 

Is flint of flint, you may strike fire 

from her, 
Not hope to melt her. I will give 

your message. 

\_Exeunt Petre and Howard. 

Enter Philip ■{nui-^ini/). 

Philip. She will not have Prince 
Philibert of Savoy, 

I talk'd with her in vain — says she 
will live 

And die true maid — a goodly crea- 
ture too. 

Would she had been the Queen! yet 
she must have him ; 

She troubles England : that she 
breathes in England 

Is life and lungs to every rebel birth 

That passes out of embryo. 

Simon Renard ! — 

This Howard, whom they fear, what 
was he savinsj ? 



QUEEN MARY. 



487 



Renard. What your imperial father 

said, my liege, 
To deal with heresy gentlier. Gardi- 
ner burns, 
And Bonner burns ; and it would seem 

this people 
Care more for our brief life in their 

wet land, 
Than yours in happier Spain. I told 

ni}' Lord 
He should not vex her Highness ; she 

would say 
These are the means God works with, 

that His church 
May flourish. 

Philip. Ay, sir, but in statesmanship 
To strike too soon is oft to miss the 

blow. 
, Thou knowest I bade my chaplain, 

Castro, preach 
Against these burnings. 

Renard. And the Emperor 

Approved j'ou, and when last he wrote, 

declared 
His comfort in your Grace that you 

were bland 
And affable to men of all estates. 
In hope to charm them from their 

hate of Spain. 
Philip. In hope to crush all heresy 

under Spam. 
But, Kenard, lam sicker staying here 
Than any sea could make me passing 

hence, 
Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea. 
So sick am I with biding for this 

child. 
Is it the fashion in this clime for 

women 
To go twelve months in bearing of a 

child ? 
The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, 

they led 
Processions, chanted litanies, clash'd 

their bells, 
Shot off their lying cannon, and her 

priests 
Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair 

prince to come ; 
Till, by St. James, I find myself the 

fool. 
Why do you lift your eyebrow at me 

thus 1 
Renard. I never saw your Highness 

moved till now. 
Philip. So weary am I of this wet 

land of theirs, 
And every soul of man that breathes 

therein. 
Benard. My liege, we must not 

drop the mask before 
The masquerade is over — 

Philip. — Have I dropt it ■? 

I have but shown a loathing face to 

you. 

Who knew it from the first. 



Enter Mary. 

Mar;! (aside). With Renard. Still 
Parleying with Renard, all the day 

with Renard, 
And scarce a greeting all the day for 

me — 
And goes to-morrow. [Exit Mary. 

Philip (to Renard, icho advances to 
him). Well, sir, is there morel 
Renard (who has perceived the Queen) . 
May Simon Renard speak a 
single word 1 
Philip. Ay. 

Benard. And be forgiven for it 1 
Philip. Simon Renard 

Knows me too well to sjjeak a single 

word 
That could not be forgiven. 

Renard. Well, my liege. 

Your Grace hath a most chaste and 
loving wife. 
Philip. Why not ? The Queen of 

Piiilip should be chaste. 
Renard. Ay, but, mj' Lord, you 
know what Virgil sings, 
Woman is various and most mutable. 
Philip. She play the harlot ! never. 
Renard. No, sire, no, 

Not dream'd of by the rabidest gos- 
peller. 
There was a paper thrown into the 

palace, 
"The King hath wearied of his bar- 
ren bride." % ' 
She came uponit,read it, and then rent 

it. 
With all the rage of one who hates a 

truth 
He cannot but allow. Sire, I would 

have you — 
What should I say, I cannot pick my 

words — 
Be somewhat less — majestic to your 
Queen. 
Philip. Am I to change my man- 
ners, Simon Renard, 
Because these islanders are brutal 

beasts ! 
Or would you have me turn a son- 
neteer. 
And warble those brief-sighted eyes 
of hers ? 
Renard. Brief-sighted tho' they be, 
I have seen them, sire. 
When you perchance were trifling 

royally 
With some fair dame of court, sud- 
denly fill 
With such fierce fire — had it been 

fire indeed 
It would have burnt both speakers. 
Philip. Ay, and then * 

Benard. Sire, might it not be policy 
in some matter 



4SS 



QUEEN MARY. 



Of small importance now and then to 
cede 

A point to her demand I 

Pliilip. Well, I am going. 

Renard. For should her love when 
you are gone, my liege, 

Witness these papers, there will not 
be wanting 

Those that will urge her injury — 
sliould her love — 

And I liave known such women more 
than one — 

Veer to the counterpoint, and jeal- 
ousy 

Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse 

Almost into one metal loveandhate, — 

And she impress her wrongs upon her 
Council, 

And these again upon her Parlia- 
ment — 

We are not loved here, and would be 
then perhaps 

Not so well holpen in our wars with 
France, 

As else we might be — here she comes. 

Enter Mart. 

Marij. O Philip ! 

Nay, must you go indeed 1 

Philip. Madam, I must. 

Murj). The parting of a husband 
and a wife 
Is like the cleaving of a heart ; one half 
Will flutter here, one there. 

Philip. You say true, Madam. 

Mary. The Holy Virgin will not 
have me yet 
Lose the sweet hope that I may bear 

a prince. 
If such a prince were born and you 
not here ! 
Philip. I should be here if such a 

prince were born. 
Mar If. But must you go "? 
Philip. Madam, you know my fa- 
ther, 
Retiring into cloistral solitude 
To yield the remnant of his years to 

heaven. 
Will shift the yoke and weight of all 

the world 
From oft his neck to mine. We meet 

at Brussels. 
But since mine absence will not be for 

long. 
Your Majesty shall go to Dover with 

me. 
And wait my coming back. 

Mar 11. To Dover ? no, 

I am too feeble. I will go to Green- 
wich, 
So you will have me with you ; and 
there watch 
, All that is gracious in the breath of 
heaven 



Draw with your sails from our poor 

land, and pass 
And leave me, Pliilip, with my prayers 
for you. 
Philip. And doubtless I shall profit 

by your prayers. 
Mary. Methinks that would you 
tarry one day more 
(The news was sudden) I could mould 

myself 
To bear j^our going better; will you 
' do it? 
Philip. Madam, a day may sink or 

save a realm, 
Mary. A day may save a heart 

from breaking too. 
Philip. Well, Simon Renard, shall 

we stop a day ? 
Renard. Your Grace's business will ^ 
not suffer, sire. 
For one day more, so far as I can tell. 
Philip. Then one day more to please 

her Majesty. 
Mary. The sunshine sweeps across t\L — 
my life again. 

if I knew you felt this parting, 

Philip, 

As I do ! 

Philip. By St. James I do protest, 

Upon the faith and honor of a Span- 
iard, 

1 am vastly grieved to leave your 

Majesty. 
Simon, is supper ready "? 

Renard. Ay, my liege, 

I saw the covers laying. 

Philip. Let us have it. \_Exeunl. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I.— A Room in the Palace. 

Mart, Cardinal Pole. 

Mary. What have you there? 
Pole. So jjlease your Majesty, 

A long i^etition from the foreign 
exiles 

To spare the life of Cranmer. Bishop 
Thirlby, 

And my Lord Paget and Lord Wil- 
liam Howard, 

Crave, in the same cause, hearing of 
your Grace. 

Hath he not written himself — in- 
fatuated — 

To sue you for his life ? 

Mary. His life ? Oh, no ; 

Not sued for that — he knows it were 
in vain. 

But so much of tlie anti-papal leaven 

Works in him yet, he hatli pray'd nie 
not to sully 

Mine own prerogative, and degrade 
the realm 



QUEEN MARY. 



489 



By seeking justice at a stranger's 

hand 
Against my natural subject. King 

and Queen, 
To whom he owes his loyalty after 

God, 
Shall these accuse him to a foreign 

prince ? 
Death would not grieve him more. I 

cannot be 
True to this realm of England and 

the Pope 
Together, says the heretic. 

Pole. And there errs ; 

As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity. 
A secular kingdom is but as the body 
Lacking a soul ; and in itself a beast. 
The Holy Father in a secular kingdom 
Is as the soul descending out of 

heaven 
Into a body generate. 

Manj. Write to him, then. 

Pole. I will. 

Mary. And sharply, Pole. 

Pole. Here come the Cranmerites ! 



Enter Thiklby, Lord Paget, Lord 
William Howard. 

Howard. Health to your Grace ! 
Good morrow, my Lord Cardi- 
nal; 
We make our humble prayer unto 

your Grace 
That Cranmer may withdraw to 

foreign parts. 
Or into private life within the realm. 
In several bills and declarations, 

Madam, 
He hath recanted all his heresies. 
Paget. Ay, ay ; if Bonner have not 
forged the bills. [^l.s/f/e. 

Mary. Did not More die, and 

Fisher ? he must burn. 
Hoivard. He hath recanted, Madam. 
Mary. The better for him. 

He burns in Purgatory, not in Hell. 
Howard. Ay, ay, your Grace ; but 
it was never seen 
That any one recanting thus at full. 
As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on 
earth. 
Mary. It will be seen now, then. 
Thirlby. Madam, iNIadam ! 

I thus implore you, low upon my 

knees, 
To reach the hand of mercy to my 

friend. 
I have err'd with him ; with him I have 

recanted. 
What human reason is there why my 

friend 
Should meet with lesser mercy than 
myself ? 
Mary. My Lord of Ely, this. After 
a riot 



W^e hang the leaders, let their follow- 
ing go. 
Cranmer is head and father of these 

heresies, 
Kew learning as they call it; yea, may 

God 
Forget me at most need when I for- 
get 
Her foul divorce — my sainted mother 

— No! — 
Howard. Ay, a}', but mighty doctors 

doubted there. 
The Pope himself waver 'd ; and more 

tlian one 
Piow'd in that galley — Gardiner to 

wit. 
Whom trulj' I deny not to have been 
Your faithful friend and trusty coun- 
cillor. 
Hath not your Highness ever read his 

book, , 

His tractate upon True Obedience, 
Writ by himself and Bonner ? 

Mary. I will take 

Such order with all bad, heretical 

books 
That none shall hold them in his 

house and live, 
Henceforward. No, my Lord. 

Howard. Then never read it. 

The truth is here. Your father was 

a man 
Of such colossal kinghood, yet so 

courteous, 
Except when wroth, you scarce could 

meet his eye 
And hold your own ; and were he 

wroth indeed. 
You held it less, or not at all. I say, 
Your father had a will that beat men 

down ; 
Your father had a brain that beat 
men down — 
Pole. Not me, my Lord. 
Hoivard. No, for you were not 

here ; 
You sit upon this fallen Cranmer's 

throne ; 
And it would more become you, my 

Lord Legate, 
To join a voice, so potent with her 

Highness, 
To ours in plea for Cranmer than to 

stand 
On naked self-assertion. 

Mary. All your voices 

Are waves on flint. The heretic must 

burn. 
Howard. Yet once he saved your 

Majesty's own life ; 
Stood out against the King in your 

behalf, 
At his own peril. 

Mary. I know not if he did ; 

And if he did I care not, my Lord 

Howard. 



490 



QUEEN MARY. 



My life is not so liappy, no such 

boon, 
Tiiat I should spare to take a heretic 

priest's, 
Who saved it or not saved. Why do 

you vex me ? 
Paget. Yet to save Cranmer were 

to serve the Church, 
Your Majesty's I mean ; he is effaced, 
Self-blotted out; so wounded in his 

honor, 
He can but creep down into some dark 

hole 
Like a hurt beast, and hide himself 

and die ; 
But if you burn him, — well, your 

Highness knows 
The saying, " Martyr's blood — seed 

of the Church." 
Mary. Of the true Church ; but his 

is none, nof will be. 
You are too politic for me, my Lord 

Paget. 
And if he have to live so loath 'd a 

life. 
It were more merciful to burn him 

now. 
Thirlhy. yet relent. 0, Madam, 

if you knew him 
As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious. 
With all his learning — 

Mary. Yet a heretic still. 

His learning makes his burning the 

more just. 
Thirlhy. So worshipt of all those 

that came across him ; 
The stranger at his hearth, and all his 

house — 
Mary. His children and his concu- 
bine, belike. 
Thirlhy. To do him any wrong was 

to beget 
A kindness from him, for his heart 

was rich, 
Of such fine mould, that if you sow'd 

therein 
The seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charity. 
Pole. " After his kind it costs him 

nothing," there's 
An old world English adage to the 

point. 
These are but natural graces, my 

good Bishop, 
Which in the Catholic garden are as 

flowers. 
But on the heretic dunghill only weeds. 
Howard. Such weeds make dung- 
hills gracious. 
Mary. Enough, my Lords. 

It is God's will, the Holy Father's will. 
And Philip's will, and mine, that he 

should burn. 
He is pronounced anathema. 

Howard. Farewell, Madam, 

God grant you ampler mercy at your 

call 



Than you have shown to Cranmer. 

\_Exeunt Lords. 
Pole. After this, 

Your Grace will hardly care to over- 
look 
This same petition of the foreign exiles 
For Cranmer's life. 

Mary. Make out the writ to-night. 
\_Exeunt. 

SCENE II. — Oxford. Cranmer in 
Prison. 

Cranmer. Last night, I dream 'd the 

faggots were alight. 
And that myself was fasten'd to the 

stake, 
And found it all a A-isionary flame, 
Cool as the light in old decaying wood ; 
And then King Harry look'd from 

out a cloud. 
And bade me have good courage ; 

and I heard 
An angel cry "There is more joy in 

Heaven," — 
And after that, the trumpet of the 

dead. 

[Trumpets without. 
Why, tliere are trumpets blowing 

now : what is it 1 

Enter Father Cole. 

Cole. Cranmer, I come to question 
you again ; 
Have you remain'd in the true Cath- 
olic faith 
I left you in ? 

Cranmer. In the true Catholit 
faith. 
By Heaven's grace, I am more and 

more confirm'd. 
Why are the trumpets blowing. Father 
Cole? 
Cole. Cranmer, it is decided by the 
Council 
That you to-day should read your 

recantation 
Before the people in St. Mary's 

Cliurch. 
And there be many heretics in the 

town. 
Who loathe you for your late return 

to Rome, 
And might assail you passing through 

the street. 
And tear you piecemeal : so you have 
a guard. 
Cranmer. Or seek to rescue me. I 

thank the Council. 
Cole. Do you lack any money ? 
Cranmer. Nay, why should I ? 

The prison fare is good enough for me. 
Cole. Ay, but to give the poor. 
Cranmer. Hand it me, then ! 

I thank you. 



QUEEN MARY. 



491 



Cole. For a little space, farewell ; 

Until I see you in St. Mary's Church. 
{Exit Cole. 
Cranmer. It is against all prece- 
dent to burn 

One who recants ; they mean to par- 
don me. 

To give the poor — they give the poor 
who die. 

Well, burn me or not burn me I am 
fi.xt; 

It is but a communion, not a mass : 

A holy supper, not a sacrifice ; 

No man can make his Maker — Villa 
Garcia. 

Enter Villa Gakcia. 

Villa Garcia. Pray you write out 

this paper for me, Cranmer. 
Cranmer. Have I not writ enough 

to satisfy you ? 
Villa Garcia. It is the last. 
Cranmer. Give it me, then, 

[//e writes. 
Villa Garcia. Now sign. 

Cranmer. I have sign'd enough, 

and I will sign no more. 
Villa Garcia. It is no more than 
what you have sign'd already, 
The public form thereof. 

Cranmer. It may be so ; 

I sign it with my presence, if I read it. 

Villa Garcia. But this is idle of 

you. Well, sir, well, 

You are to beg the people to pray for 

you; 
Exhort them to a pure and virtuous 

life; 
Declare the Queen's right to the 

throne ; confess 
Your faith before all hearers ; and ' 

retract 
That Eucharistic doctrine in your 

book. 
Will you not sign it now 1 

Cranmer. No, Villa Garcia, 

I sign no more. Will they have mercy 

on me "? 

Villa Garcia. Have you good hopes 

of mercy ! So farewell. {Exit. 

Cranmer. Good hopes, not theirs, 

have I that I am fixt, 

Fixt beyond fall ; however, in strange 

hours. 
After the long brain-dazing colloquies, 
And thousand-times recurring argu- 
ment 
Of those two friars ever in my prison, 
When left alone in my despondency. 
Without a friend, a book, my faith 

would seem 
Dead or half-drown'd, or else swam 

heavily 
Against the huge corruptions of the 
Church, 



Monsters of mistradition, old enough 
To scare me into dreaming, "what 

am I, 
Cranmer, against whole ages "? " was 

it so. 
Or am I slandering my most inward 

friend. 
To veil the fault of my most outward 

foe — 
The soft and tremulous coward in the 

flesh? 

higher, holier, earlier, purer church, 

1 have found thee and not leave thee 

any more. 
It is but a communion, not a mass — 
No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast ! 
(Writes.) So, so; this will I say — 

thus will I pray. {Puts up the 

paper. 

Enter Bonner. 

Bonner. Good day, old friend ; 

what, you look somewhat worn ; 
And yet it is a day to test your health 
Ev'n at the best : I scarce have spoken 

with you 
Since when ? — your degradation. At 

your trial 
Never stood up a bolder man than 

you; 
You would not cap the Pope's com- 
missioner — 
Your learning, and your stoutness, 

and your heresy, 
Dumbfounded half of us. So, after 

that, 
We had to dis-archbishop and unlord. 
And make you simple Cranmer once 

again. 
The common barber dipt your hair, 

and I 
Scraped from your finger-points the 

holy oil ; 
And worse than all, you had to kneel 

to me; 
Which was not pleasant for you, 

Master Cranmer. 
Now you, that would not recognize 

the Pope, 
And you, that would not own the Real 

Presence, 
Have found a real presence in the 

stake. 
Which frights you back into the an- 
cient faith ; 
And so you have recanted to the Pope. 
How are the mighty fallen. Master 

Cranmer ! P^' 
Cranmer. You have been more 

fierce against the Pope than I; 
But why fling back the stone he strikes 

me with ? {Aside. 

Bonner, if I ever did you kindness — 
Power hath been given you to try 

faith by fire — 



492 



QUEEN MARY. 



Pray you, remembering how yourself 

have changed, 
Be somewhat pitiful, after I have 

gone, 
To the poor flock — to women and to 

children — 
That when I was archbishop held with 

me. 
Bonner. Ay — gentle as they call 

you — live or die ! 
Pitiful to this pitiful heresy 1 
I must obey the Queen and Council, 

man. 
Win thro' this daj' with honor to your- 
self. 
And I'll say something for you — so 

— good-bye. [E.vit. 

Cranmer. This hard coarse man of 

old hath crouch'd to me 
Till I myself was half ashamed for 

him. 

Enter Thielbt. 
Weep not, good Thirlby. 

Thirlhij. Oh, my Lord, my Lord ! 
My heart is no such block as Bonner's 

is : 
Who would not weep ? 
' Cranmer. Why do you so mj'-lord 
me, 
Who am disgraced ? 

Tliirlhy. On earth ; but saved in 
heaven 
By j^our recanting. 

Cranmer. Will they biirn me, 

Thirlby ? 
Thirlby. Alas, they will; these 
burnings will not help 
The purpose of the faith ; but my poor 

voice 
Against them is a wliisper to the roar 
Of a spring-tide. 

Cranmer. And they will surely 

burn me ? 
Thirlby. Ay ; and besides, will have 
you in the chiu'ch 
Repeat your recantation in the ears 
Of all men, to the saving of their 

souls. 
Before your execution. May God 

help you 
Thro' that hard hour ! 

Cranmer. And may God bless you, 

Thirlby ! 

Well, they shall hear my recantation 

there. [Exit Thirlby. 

Disgraced, dishonor'd ! — not by them, 

indeed. 
By mine own ^f — by mine own 

hand ! 
thin-skinn'd hand and jutting veins, 

'twas you 
That sign'd the burning of poor Joan 

of Kent; 
But then she was a witch. You have 
written much. 



But you were never raised to plead 

for Frith, 
Whose dogmas I have reach'd : he 

was deliver'd 
To the secular arm to burn ; and there 

was Lambert ; 
Who can foresee himself? truly these 

burnings. 
As Thirlby says, are profitless to tlie 

burners. 
And help the other side. You shall 

burn too. 
Burn first when I am burnt. 
Fire — inch by inch to die in agony ! 

Latimer 
Had a brief end — not Ridley. 

Hooper burn'd 
Three-quarters of an hour. Will my 

faggots 
Be wet as his were ? It is a day of 

rain. 
I Mill not muse upon it. 
My fancy takes the burner's part, and 

makes 
The fire seem even crueller than it 

is. 
No, I not doubt that God will give 

me strength. 
Albeit I have denied him. 

Enter Soto and Villa Garcia. 

Villa Garcia. We are ready 

To take you to St. Mary's, Master 

Cranmer. 
Cranmer. And I : lead on ; ye loose 

me from my bonds. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. — St. Mary's Church. 

Cole in the Pulpit, Lord Williams 
OF Thajie presidinfj. Lord Wil- 
liam Howard, Lord Paget, and 
others. Cranmer enters between 
Soto and Villa Garcia, and the 
u-hole Choir strike up " Nunc Dimit- 
tis." Cranmer is set upon a Scaf- 
fold before the people. 

Cole. Behold him — 

[A pause : people in the forer/round. 

People. Oh, unhappy sight ! 

First Protestant. See how the tears 

run down his fatherly face. 
Second Protestant. James, didst thou 

ever see a carrion crow 
Stand watching a sick beast before he 

dies ? 
First Protestant. Him perch'd up 

there ? I wish some thunder- 
bolt 
Would make this Cole a cinder, pulpit 

and all. 
Cole. Behold him, brethren : he 

hath cause to weep ! — 



QUEEN MARY. 



493 



So haA-e we all : weep with him if ye 

will. 

Yet 

It is expedient for one man to die, 
Yea, for the people, lest the people 

die. 
Yet wherefore should he die that hath 

return'd 
To the one Catholic Universal Church, 
Repentant of his errors ? 

PruU'stunt muntiurs. Av, tell us 

that. 
Cole. Those of the wrong side will 

despise the man, 
Deeming him one that thro' the fear 

of death 
Gave up his cause, except he seal his 

faith 
In sight of all with flaming martyr- 
dom. 
Cranmer. Ay. 
Cole. Ye hear liim, and albeit there 

may seem 
According to the canons pardon due 
To him that so repents, yet are there 

causes 
Wherefore our Queen and Council at 

this time 
Adjudge him to the death. He hath 

been a traitor, 
A shaker and confounder of the 

realm ; 
And when the King's divorce was 

sued at Rome, 
He here, this heretic metropolitan, 
As if he had been the Holy Father, 

sat 
And judged it. Did I call him 

heretic ? 
A huge hcresiarch ! never was it 

known 
That any man so writing, preaching 

so. 
So poisoning the Church, so long con- 
tinuing, 
Hath found his pardon ; therefore he 

must die. 
For warning and example. 

Other reasons 
There be for this man's ending, which 

our Queen 
And Council at this present deem it 

not 
Expedient to be known. 

Protestant murmurs. I warrant you. 
Cole. Take therefore, all, exami^le 

by this man. 
For if our Holy Queen not pardon him. 
Much less shall others in like cause 

escape. 
That all of you, the highest as the 

lowest. 
May learn there is no power against 

the Lord. 
There stands a man, once of so high 

dei^ree. 



Chief prelate of our Church, arch- 
bishop, first 

In Council, second person in the 
realm, 

Friend for so long time of a mighty 
King ; 

And now ye see downfallen and de- 
based 

From councillor to caitiff — fallen so 
low. 

The leprous flutterings of the byway, 
scum 

And offal of the city Avould not 
change 

Estates with him; in brief, so miser- 
able, 

There is no hope of better left for him. 

No place for worse. 

Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad. 

This is the work of God. He is glori- 
fied 

In thy conversion : lo ! thou art re- 
claim'd ; 

He brings thee home : nor fear but 
that to-day 

Thou shalt receive the penitent thief's 
award, 

And be with Christ the Lord in Para- 
dise. 

Remember how God made the fierce 
fire seem 

To those three children like a pleas- 
ant dew. 

Remember, too, 

The triumph of St. Andrew on his 
cross. 

The patience of St. Lawrence in the 
fire. 

Thus, if thoix call on God and all the 
saints, 

God will beat down the fury of the 
flame. 

Or give thee saintly strength to under- 
go. 

And for thy soul shall masses here be 
sung 

By everj' priest in Oxford. Pray for 
him. 
Cranmer. Ay, one and all, dear 
brothers, pray for me ; 

Pray with one breath, one heart, one 
soul for me. 
Cole. And now, lest anyone among 
yoii doubt 

The man's conversion and remorse of 
heart. 

Yourselves shall hear him speak. 
Speak, i\LTster Cranmer, 

Fulfil your promise made me, and 
proclaim 

Your true undoubted faith, that all 
may hear. 
Cranmer. And that I will. God, 
Father of Heaven ! 

Son of God, Redeemer of the 
world ! 



494 



QUEEN MARY. 



Holy Ghost ! proceeding from them 

both, 
Three persons and one God, have 

mercy on me, 
Most miserable sinner, wretched man. 

1 have offended against heaven and 

earth 
More grievously than any tongue can 

tell. 
Then whither should I flee for any 

help? 
I am ashamed to lift my eyes to heaven, 
And I can find no refuge upon earth. 
Shall I despair then ? — God forbid ! 

O God, 
For thou art merciful, refusing none 
That come to Thee for succor, unto 

Thee, 
Therefore, I come ; humble myself to 

Thee ; 
Saying, Lord God, although my sins 

be great, 
For thy great mercy have mercy ! O 

God the Son, 
Not for slight faults alone, when thou 

becamest 
Man in the Flesh, was the great mys- 

terj'^ wrought ; 
O God the Father, not for little sins 
Didst thou yield up thy Son to human 

death ; 
But for the greatest sin that can be 

sinn'd. 
Yea, even such as mine, incalculable. 
Unpardonable, — sin against the light. 
The truth of God, which I had proven 

and known. 
Thy mercy must be greater than all 

sin. 
Forgive me. Father, for no merit of 

mine. 
But that Thy name by man be glori- 
fied. 
And Thy most blessed Son's, who died 

for man. 
Good people, every man at time of 

death 
Would fain set forth some saying that 

may live 
After his death and better humankind ; 
For death gives life's last word a 

power to live. 
And, like the stone-cut epitaph, remain 
After tlie vanish'd voice, and speak 

to men. 
God grant me grace to glorify my God! 
And first I say it is a grievous case. 
Many so dote upon this bubble world. 
Whose colors in a moment break and 

fly, 

They care for nothing else. What 

saith St. John : — 
" Love of this world is hatred against 

God." 
Again, I pray you all that, next to God, 
You do unmurmuringly and willingly 



Obey your King and Queen, and not 

for dread 
Of these alone, but from the fear of 

Him 
Whose ministers they be to govern 

you. 
Thirdly, I pray you all to live together 
Like brethren ; yet what hatred 

Christian men 
Bear to each other, seeming not as 

brethren. 
But mortal foes ! But do you good to 

all 
As much as in you lieth. Hurt no 

man more 
Than you would harm your loving 

natural brother 
Of the same roof, same breast. If any 

do. 
Albeit he think himself at home with 

God, 
Of this be sure, he is Avhole worlds 

away. 
Protestant murmurs. What sort of 

brothers then be those that lust 
To burn each other ? 

Williams. Peace be among you, 

there ! 
Cranmer. Fourthly, to those that 

own exceeding wealth, 
Eemember that sore saying spoken 

once 
By Him that was the truth, " How 

hard it is 
For the rich man to enter into 

Heaven ; " 
Let all rich men remember that hard 

word. 
I have not time for more : if ever, 

now 
Let them flow forth in charity, seeing 

now 
The poor so many, and all food so 

dear. 
Long have I lain in prison, yet have 

heard 
Of all their wretchedness. Give to 

the poor. 
Ye give to God. He is with us in the 

I^oor. 
And now, forasmuch as I have 

come 
To the last end of life, and thereupon 
Hangs all my past, and all my life to 

be, 
Either to live with Christ in Heaven 

with joy. 
Or to be still in pain with devils in 

hell ; 
And, seeing in a moment, I shall find 
\_P<iinting upwards. 
Heaven or else hell ready to swallow 

me, \_Pointiny downwards. 

I shall declare to you my very faith 
Without all color. 

Cole. Hear him, my good brethren. 



QUEEN MARY. 



495 



Cranmer. I do believe in God, Father 
of all ; 

In every article of the Catholic faith, 

And every syllable taught us by our 
Lord, 

His prophets, and apostles, in the 
Testaments, 

Both Old and New. ' 

Cole. Be plainer, Master Cranmer. 
Cranmer. And now I come to the 
great cause that weiglis 

Upon my conscience more than any- 
thing 

Or said or done in all my life by me; 

For there be writings I have set abroad 

Against the truth I knew within my 
heart, 

"Written for fear of death, to save my 
life, 

If that might be ; the papers by my 
hand 

Sign'd since my degradation — by this 
hand 

\^Hold!n(j out his right hand. 

Written and sign'd — I here renounce 
them all ; 

And, since my hand offended, having 
written 

Against my heart, my hand shall first 
be burnt, 

So I may come to the fire. 

[Dead silence. 
Protestant murmurs. 
First Protestant. I knew it would be 

so. 
Second Protestant. Our prayers are 

heard ! 
Third Protestant. God bless him ! 
Catholic inurmurs. Out upon him ! 
out upon him ! 

Liar ! dissembler ! traitor ! to the fire ! 
Williams {raising his voice). You 
know that you recanted all you 
said 

Touching the sacrament in that same 
book 

You wrote against my Lord of Win- 
chester ; 

Dissemble not ; play the plain Chris- 
tian man. 
Cranmer. Alas, my Lord, 

I have been a man loved plainness all 
my life ; 

I did dissemble, but the hour has come 

For utter truth and plainness ; where- 
fore, I say, 

I hold by all I wrote within that book. 

Moreover, 

As for the Pope I count him Anti- 
christ, 

With all his devil's doctrines ; and 
refuse, 

Reject him, and abhor him. I have 
said. \_Cries on all sides, 

" Pull him down ! Awaj- with 
him ! " 



Cole. Aj-, stop the heretic's mouth ! 

Hale him away ! 
Williams. Harm him not, harm him 

not ! have him to the fire ! 
[Cranmer goes out between Two 

Friars, smiling: hands are reached 

to him from the crowd. Lord 

William Howard and Lord 

Paget are left alone in the chui-ch. 
Paget. The nave and aisles all 

empty as a fool's jest ! 
No, here's Lord William Howard. 

What, my Lord, 
You have not gone to see the burning? 
Howard. Fie ! 

To stand at ease, and stare as at a 

show, 
And watch a good man burn. Never 

again. 
I saw the deaths of Latimer and Eid- 

ley. 
Moreover, tlio' a Catholic, I would not. 
For the pure honor of our common 

nature, 
Hear what I might — another recanta- 
tion 
Of Cranmer at the stake. 

Paget. You'd not hear that. 

He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd 

upright ; 
His eye was like a soldier's, whom the 

general 
He looks to and he leans on as his 

God, 
Hath rated for some backwardness 

and bidd'n him 
Charge one against a thousand, and 

the man 
Hurls his soil'd life against the pikes 

and dies. 
Howard. Yet that he might not 

after all those papers 
Of recantation yield again, avIio 

knows 1 
Paget. Papers of recantation ! 

Think you then 
That Cranmer read all papers that he 

sign'd ? 
Or sign'd all those they tell us that lie 

sign'd ? 
Nay, I trow not : and you shall see, 

my Lord, 
That howsoever hero-like the man 
Dies in the fire, this Bonner or another 
Will in some lying fashion misreport 
His ending to the glory of their 

church. 
And you saw Latimer and Ridlej' die ? 
Latimer was eighty, was he not ? his 

best 
Of life was over then. 

Hoivard. His eighty years 

Look'd somewhat crooked on him in 

his frieze ; 
But after they had stript him to his 

shroud, 



496 



QUEEN MARY. 



He stood upright, a lad of twenty- 
one, 

And gather'd with his hands the start- 
ing flame, 

And wash'd his hands and all his face 
tlierein, 

Until tlie powder suddenly blew him 
dead. 

Ridley was longer burning; but he 
died 

As manfully and boldly, and, 'fore 
God, 

I know them heretics, but right Eng- 
lish ones. 

If ever, as heaven grant, we clash 
with Spain, 

Our Ridley-soldiers and our Latimer- 
sailors 

Will teach her something. 

Paget. Your mild Legate Pole 

Will tell you that the devil helpt them 
thro' it. 
\_A murmur of the Crowd in the 
distance. 

Hark, how those Roman wolfdogs 
howl and bay him ! 
Hoivard. Might it not be the other 
side rejoicing 

In his brave end 1 

Paget. They are too crush'd, too 
broken. 

They can but weep in silence. 

Howard. Ay, ay, Paget, 

They have brought it in large measure 
on themselves. 

Have I not heard them mock the 
blessed Host 

In songs so lewd, the beast might roar 
his claim 

To being in God's image, more than 
they ? 

Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the 
groom, 

Gardener, and huntsman, in the par- 
son's place, 

The parson from his own spire swung 
out dead, 

And Ignorance crying in the streets, 
and all men 

Regarding her ? I say they have 
drawn the fire 

On their own heads : yet, Paget, I do 
hold 

The Catholic, if he have the greater 
right. 

Hath been the crueller. 

Paget. Action and re-action. 

The miserable see-saw of our child- 
world. 

Make us despise it at odd hours, my 
Lord. 

Heaven help that this re-action not 
re-act 

Yet fiercelier under Queen Elizabeth, 

So that she come to rule us. 

Howard. The world's mad. 



Paget. My Lord, the world is like 

a drunken man. 
Who cannot move straight to his end 

— but reels 
Now to the right, then as far to the 

■ left, 
Push'd by the crowd beside — and 

underfoot 
An earthquake ; for since Henry for 

a doubt — 
AYhich a young hist had clapt upon 

the back, 
Crying, " Forward ! " — set our old 

church rocking, men 
Have liardly known what to believe, 

or whether 
They should believe in anything ; the 

currents 
So shift and change, they see not 

how they are borne. 
Nor whither. I conclude the King a 

beast; 
Verily a lion if you will — the world 
A most obedient beast and fool — 

myself 
Half beast and fool as appertaining 

to it; 
Altho' your Lordship hath as little of 

each 
Cleaving to your original Adam-clay, 
As may be consonant witli mortality. 
Howard. We talk and Cranmer 

suffers. 
The kindliest man I ever knew ; see, 

see, 
I speak of him in the past. Unhappy 

land ! 
Hard-natured Queen, half-Spanisli in 

herself, 
And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock 

of Spain — 
Her life, since Philip left her, and she 

lost 
Her fierce desire of bearing him a 

child. 
Hath, like a brief and bitter winter's 

day. 
Gone narrowing down and darkening 

to a close. 
There will be more conspiracies, I 

fear. 
Paget. Ay, ay, beware of France. 
Hoicard. Paget, Paget ! 

I have seen heretics of the poorer 

sort, 
Exiiectant of the rack from day to 

day, 
To whom the fire were welcome, lying 

chain'd 
In breathless dungeons over steaming 

sewers, 
Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upon 

the tongue. 
And putrid water, every drop a worm, 
Until they died of rotted limbs ; and 

tiien 



QUEEN MARY. 



497 



Cast on the dunghill naked, and 

become 
Hideousl}' alive again from head to 

heel, 
Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel 

vomit 
With hate and horror. 

Paget. ^aj, you sicken me 

To hear you. 

Howard. Fancy-sick ; these things 

are done. 
Done right against the promise of this 

Queen 
Twice given. 

Paget. No faith with heretics, my 

Lord ! 
Hist ! there be two old gossips — gos- 
pellers, 
I take it ; stand behind the pillar here ; 
I warrant you they talk about the 

burning. 

Enter Two Old Women. Joan, and 
after her Tib. 

Joan. Why, it be Tib ! 

Tib. I cum behind tha, gall, and 
couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the wind 
and the wet ! What a day, what a 
day ! nigh ujjo' judgement daaj^ loike. 
Pwoaps be pretty things, Joan, but 
they wunt set i' the Lord's cheer o' 
that daay. 

Joan. I must set down myself, Tib ; 
it be a var waay vor my owld legs up 
vro' Islip. Eh, mj- rheumatizj- be tliat 
bad howiver be I to win to the burnin'. 

Tib. I should saay 'twur ower by 
now. I'd ha' been iiere avore, but 
Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, and 
Bumble's the best milcher in Islip. 

Joan. Our Daisy's' as good 'z her. 

Tib. No a, Joan. 

Joan. Our Daisy's butter's as 
good 'z hern. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

Joan. Our Daisy's cheeses be bet- 
ter. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

Joan. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' 
me, Tib ; ez thou hast wi' thy owld 
man. 

Tib. Ay, Joan, and my owld man 
wur up and awaay betimes wi' dree 
hard eggs for a good pleace at the 
burnin'; and barrin' the wet, Hodge 
'ud ha' been a-harrowin' o' white 
peasen i' the outfield — and barrin' 
the wind, Dumble wur blow'd wi' the 
wind, so 'z we was forced to stick her, 
but we fetched her round at last. 
Thank the Lord therevore. Dumble's 
the best milcher in Islip. 

Joan. Thou's thy way wi' man and 
beast, Tib. I wonder at tha', it beats 
me ! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps 



and vires be bad things ; tell 'ee now, 
I heerd summat as summun towld 
summun o' owld Bishop Gardiner's 
end ; there wur an owld lord a-cum to 
dine wi' un, and a wur so owld a 
couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a had 
to bide howsomiver, vor " I wunt 
dine," says my Lord Bishop, says he, 
" not till I hears ez Latimer and Kid- 
ley be a-vire ; " and so they bided on 
and on till voiir o' the clock, till his 
man cum in post vro' here, and tells 
un ez the vire has tuk holt. " Now," 
says the Bishop, says he, " we'll gwo 
to dinner ; " and the owld lord fell to 
's meat wi' a will, God bless un ! but 
Gardiner wur struck down like by the 
hand o' God avore a could taste a 
mossel, and a set un all a-vire, so 'z 
the tongue on un cum a-lolluping out 
o' 'is mouth as black as a rat. Thank 
the Lord, therevore. 

Paget. The fools ! 

Tib. Ay, Joan ; and Queen Mary 
gwoes on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to 
get her baaby born ; but all her burn- 
ins' 'ill never burn out the hypocrisy 
that makes the water in her. There's 
nought but the vire of God's hell ez 
can burn out that. 

Joan. Thank the Lord, therevore. 

Paget. The fools ! 

Tib. A-burnin' and a-burnin', and 
a-makin' o' volk madder and madder ; 
but tek thou my word voi''t, Joan, — 
and I bean't wrong not twice i' ten 
year — the burnin' o' the owld arch- 
bishop '11 burn the Pwoap out o' this 
'ere land vor iver and iver. 

Howard. Out of the church, you 
brace of cursed crones. 
Or I will have you duck'd ! ( Women 

htirri/ out.) Said I not right "? 
For how should reverend prelate or 

throned prince 
Brook for an hour such brute malig- 
nity ? 
Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther 
brew'd ! 

Paget. Pooh, pooh, my Lord ! poor 
garrulous country-wives. 
Buy you their cheeses, and they'll side 

with you ; 
You cannot judge the liquor from the 
lees. 

Howard. I think that in some sort 
we may. But see, 

Enter Peters. 

Peters, my gentleman, an honest 

Catholic, 
Who foUow'd with the crowd to Cran- 

mer's fire. 
One that would neither misreport nor 

lie, 



498 



QUEEN MARY. 



Not to gain paradise : no, nor if the 

Pope, 
Charged liim to do it — he is white as 

death. 
Peters, how jiale you look ! you bring 

the smoke 
Of Cranmer's burning with you, 

Peters. Twice or thrice 

The smoke of Cranmer's burningwrapt 

me round. 
Howard. Peters, you know me 

Catholic, but English. 
Did he die bravely 1 Tell me that, or 

leave 
All else untold. 

Peters. My Lord, he died most 

bravely. 
Howard. Then tell me all. 
Paget. Ay, Master Peters, tell us. 
Peters. You saw him how he past 

among the crowd ; 
And ever as he walk'd the Spanish 

friars 
Still plied him with entreaty and re- 
proach : 
But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the 

helm 
Steers, ever looking to the happy ha- 
ven 
Where he shall rest at night, moved 

to his death ; 
And I could see that many silent 

hands 
Came from the crowd and met his 

own ; and thus, 
When we had come where Ridley 

burnt with Latimer, 
ile, with a cheerful smile, as one 

whose mind 
Is all made up, in haste put off the 

rags 
They had mock'd his misery with, and 

all in white, 
His long white beard, which he had 

never shaven 
Since Henry's death, down-sweeping 

to the chain 
Wherewith they bound him to the 

stake, he stood 
More like an ancient father of the 

Church, 
Than heretic of these times ; and still 

the friars 
Plied him, but Cranmer only shook 

his head, 
Oranswer'd them in smiling negatives ; 
Whereat Lord Williams gave a sud- 
den cry : — 
" Make short ! make short ! " and so 

they lit the wood. 
Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to 

heaven, 
And thrust his right into the bitter 

flame ; 
And crying, in his deep voice, more 

tlian once. 



" This hatli offended — this unworthy 
hand ! " 

So held it till it all was burn'd, before 

The flame had reach'd his body; I 
stood near — 

Mark'd him — he never uttered moan 
of pain : 

He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a 
statue, 

Unmoving in the greatness of the 
flame. 

Gave up the ghost ; and so past mar- 
tyr-like — 

Martyr I may not call him — past — 
but whither ? 
Par/et. To purgatory, man, to pur- 
gatory. 
Peters. Nay, but, my Lord, he de- 
nied purgatory. 
Paget. Why then to heaven, and 

God ha' mercy on him. 
Howard. Paget, despite his fearful 
heresies, 

I loved the man, and needs must 
moan for him ; 

Cranmer ! 

Paget. But ,your moan is useless 
now : 
Come out, my Lord, it is a world of 
fools. [^Exeunt. 

ACT V. 

SCENE I. — London. Hall in the 
Palace. 

Queen, Sir Nicholas Heath. 

Henth. Madam, 

1 do assure you, that it must be look'd 

to: 
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes 
Are scarce two hundred men, and the 

French fleet 
Rule in the narrow seas. It must be 

look'd to. 
If Avar should fall between yourself 

and France ; 
Or j-ou will lose your Calais. 

Mart/. It shall be look'd to; 

I wish you a good morning, good Sir 

Nicholas : 
Here is the King. [Exit Heath. 

Enter Philip. 

Philip. Sir Nicholas tells you true, 

And you must look to Calais when I go. 

Mary. Go .' must you go, indeed — 

again — so soon ? 

Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the 

swallow. 
That might live alwajf^s in the sun's 

warm heart. 
Stays longer here in our poor north 

than you : — 
Knows where he nested — ever comes 
again. 



QUEEN MARY. 



499 



Philip. And, Madam, so shall I. 
Mary. 0, Avill you *? will you '^ 

I am faint with fear that you will 

come no more. 
Philip. Ay, ay; but many voices 

call me hence. 
Mary. Voices — I hear unhappy 

rumors — nay, 
I say not, I believe. What voices 

call you 
Dearer than mine that should be dear- 
est to you ■? 
Alas, my Lord ! what voices and how 

many ? 
Philip. The voices of Castile and 

Aragon, 
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan, — 
The voices of Franche-Comte', and the 

Netherlands, 
The voices of Peru and Mexico, 
Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines, 
And all the fair spice-islands of the 

East. 
Mary (admiringly). You are the 

mightiest monarch upon earth, 
I but a little Queen : and, so indeed. 
Need you the more. 

Philip. A little Queen ! but when 
I came to wed your Majesty, Lord 

Howard, 
Sending an insolent shot that dash'd 

the seas 
Upon us, made us lower our kingly flag 
To yours of England. 

Mary. Howard is all English ! 

There is no king, not were he ten times 

king. 
Ten times our husband, but must 

lower liis flag 
To that of England in the seas of 

England. 
Philip. Is that your answer '' 
Mary. Being Queen of England, 
I have none other. 
Philip. So. 

3Iary. But wherefore not 

Helm the huge vessel of your state, 

my liege, 
Here by the side of her who loves you 

mosti 
Philip. No, Madam, no ! a candle in 

the sun 
Is all but smoke — a star beside the 

moon 
Is all but lost; your people will not 

crown me — 
Your people are as cheerless as your 

clime ; 
Hate me and mine : witness the brawls, 

the gibbets. 
Here swings a Spaniard — there an 

Englishman ; 
The peoples are unlike as their com- 
plexion ; 
Yet will I be your swallow and re- 
turn — 



But now I cannot bide. 

Mary. Not to help me ? 

They hate me also for my love to 

you. 
My Philip ; and these judgments on 

the land — 
Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, 

plague — 
Philip. The blood and sweat of 

heretics at the stake 
Is God's best dew upon the barren field. 
Burn more ! 

Mary. I will, I will ; and you will 

stay"? 
Philip. Have I not said 1 Madam, 

I came to sue 
Your Council and yourself to declare 

war. 
Mary. Sir, there are many English 

in your ranks 
To help your battle. 

Philip. So far, good. I say 

I came to sue your Council and your- 
self 
To declare Avar against the King of 

France. 
Mary. Not to see me 1 
Philip. Ay, Madam, to see you. 
Unalterably and pesteringly fond ! 

\_Aside. 
But, soon or late you must have war 

with France ; 
King Henry warms your traitors at 

his hearth. 
Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford 

there. 
Courtenay, belike — 

Mary. A fool and featherhead ! 

Philip. Ay, but they use his name. 

In brief, this Henry 
Stirs up your land against you to the 

intent 
That you may lose your English her- 
itage. 
And then, your Scottish namesake 

marrying 
The Dauphin, he would weld France, 

England, Scotland, 
Into one sword to hack at Spain and 

me. 
Mary. And yet the Pope is now 

colleagued with France ; 
You make your warg upon him down 

in Italy : — 
Philip, can that be well ? 

Philip. Content you. Madam ; 

You must abide my judgment, and 

my father's. 
Who deems it a most just and holy 

war. 
The Pope would cast the Spaniard 

out of Naples : 
He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, 

Saracens. 
The Pope • has pushed his horns be- 
yond his mitre — 



500 



QUEEN MARY. 



Beyond his province. Kow, 

Duke Alva will but touch him on the 

horns, 
And he withdraws ; and of his holy 

head — 
For Alva is ti-ue son of the true 

church — 
No hair is harm'd. Will you not help 
me here ? 
Mary. Alas ! the Council will not 
hear of war. 
They say j^our wars are not the wars 

of England. 
They will not lay more taxes on a 

land 
So hunger-nipt and wretched; and 

you know 
The crown is poor. We have given 

the church-lands back: 
The nobles would not ; nay, they clapt 

their hands 
Upon their swords when ask'd ; and 

therefore God 
Is hard upon the people. What's to 

be done ? 
Sir, I will move them in your cause 

again, 
Andwewillraiseus loans and subsidies 
Among the merchants ; and Sir 

Thomas Gresham 
Will aid us. There is Antwerp and 
the Jews. 
Philip. IMadam, my thanks. 
Mari). And you will stay your 

going ? 
Philip. And further to discourage 
and lay lame 
The plots of France, altho' you love 

her not, 
You must proclaim Elizabeth yoiir 

heir. 
She stands between you and the 
Queen of Scots. 
Mart/. The Queen of Scots at least 

is Catholic. 
Philiji. Ay, Madam, Catholic ; but 
I will not have 
The King of France the King of Eng- 
land too. 
Marij. But she's a heretic, and, 
when I am gone. 
Brings the new learning back. 

Philip. It must be done. 

You must proclaim Elizabeth your 
heir. 
Mary. Then it is done ; but j^ou will 
stay 3'our going 
Somewhat beyond your settled pur- 
pose ? 
Philip. No ! 

Marij. What, not one day ? 
Philip. You beat upon the rock. 
ifarji. And I am broken there. 
Phili]). Is this a place 

To wail in, Madam ? what ! a public 
hall. 



Go in, I pray you. 

Mary. Do not seen so changed. 
Say go ; but only say it lovinglj'. 

Philip. You do mistake. 1 am not 
one to change. 
I never loved you more. 

Marij. Sire, I obey you. 

Come quickly. 

Philip. Ay. \_E.rit Mary. 

Enter CouxT de Feria. 
Feria {aside). The Queen in tears! 
Philip. Feria ! 

Hast thou not mark'd — come closer 

to mine ear — 
How doubly aged this Queen of ours 

hath grown 
Since she lost hope of bearing us a 
child ? 
Feria. Sire, if your Grace hath 

mark'd it, so have I. 
Philip. Hast thou not likewise 
mark'd Elizabeth, 
How fair and ro^yal — like a Queen, 
indeed ? 
Feria. Allow me the same answer 
as before — 
That if your Grace hath mark'd her, 
so have I. 
Philip. Good, now; methinks my 
Queen is like enough 
To- leave me by and Ijy. 

Feria. To leave you, sire ? 

Philip. I mean not like to live. 

Elizabeth — 

To Philibert of Savoy, as you know, 

We meant to wed her ; but I am not 

sure 
She will not serve me better — so my 

Queen 
Would leave me — as — my wife. 
Feria. Sire, even so. 

Philip. She will not have Prince 

Philibert of Savoy. 
Feria. No, sire. 

Philip. I have to pray you, 

some odd time. 
To sound the Princess carelessly on 

this ; 
Not as from me, but as your pliantasy ; 
And tell me how she takes it. 

Feria. Sire, I will. 

Philip. I am not certain but that 
Pliilibert 
Shall be the man ; and I shall urge 

his suit 
Upon the Queen, because I am not 

certain : 
You understand, Feria. 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. And if you be not secret 
in this matter. 
You understand me there, too ? 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. You must be sweet and 

supple, like a Frenchman. 



QUEEN MARY. 



501 



She is none of those who loathe the 
honeycomb. \_Exit Feria. 

Enter Renaed. 

Renard. My liege, I bring you 

goodly tidings. 
Philip. Well ? 

Renard. There ivill be war with 

France, at last, my liege ; 
Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed 

ass, 
Sailing from France, with thirty Eng- 
lishmen, 
Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of 

York ; 
Proclaims himself protector, and af- 
firms 
The Queen has forfeited her right to 

reign 
By marriage with an alien — other 

things 
As idle ; a weak "Wyatt ! Little doubt 
This buzz will soon be silenced; but 

the Council 
(I have talk'd with some already) are 

for war. 
This the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in 

France ; 
They show their teeth upon it ; and 

your Grace, 
So you will take advice of mine, 

should stay 
Yet for awhile, to shape and guide the 

event. 
Philip. Good! Renard, I will stay 

then. 
Renard. Also, sire. 

Might I not say — to please j'our wife, 

the Queen ? 
Philip. Ay, Renard, if you care to 

put it so. \_Exeiuit. 

SCENE II. — A Rooir ix the 
Palace. 

Maky, sitting: a rose in her hand. 
Lady CI.ARE^XE. Alice in the hack- 
ground. 

Mary. Look ! I have play'd with 
this poor rose so long 
I have broken off the head. 

Lady Clarence. Your Grace hath 
been 
More merciful to many a rebel head 
That shouM have fallen, and may rise 
agam. 
Mary. There were not many hang'd 

for Wyatt's rising. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, not two hun- 
dred. 
Mary. I could weep for them 

And her, and mine own self and all 
the world. 
Lady Clarence. For her ? for whom, 
your Grace ? 



Enter Lusher. 
Usher. The Cardinal. 
Enter Cardinal Pole. ( Mary ?i"ses. ) 

Mary. Reginald Pole, what news 
hath plagued thy heart ? 

What makes thy favor like the blood- 
less head 

Fall'n on the block, and held up by 
the hair? 

Philip ■? — 

Pole. No, Philip is as warm in life 

As ever. 

Mary. Ay, and then as cold as 
ever. 

Is Calais taken ^ 

Pole. Cousin, there hath chanced 

A sharper harm to England and to 
Rome, 

Than Calais taken. Julius the Third 

Was ever just, and mild, and father- 
like ; 

But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the 
Fourth, 

Not only reft me of that legateship 

Which Julius gave me, and the legate- 
ship 

Annex'd to Canterbury — nay, but 
worse — 

And yet I must obey the Holy Father, 

And so must you, good cousin ; — 
worse than all, 

A passing bell toU'd in a dying ear — 

He hath cited me to Rome, for heres}', 

Before his Inquisition. 

Mary. I knew it, cousin. 

But held from you all papers sent by 
Rome, 

That you might rest among us, till 
the Pope, 

To compass M'hich I wrote myself to 
Rome, 

Reversed his doom, and that yo\i 
might not seem 

To disobey his Holiness. 

Pole. He hates Philip ; 

He is all Italian, and he hates the 
Spaniard ; 

He cannot dream that / advised the 
war ; 

He strikes thro' me at Philip and 
yourself. 

Nay, but I know it of old, he hates 
me too ; 

So brands me in the stare of Christen- 
dom 

A heretic ! 

Now, even now, when bow'd before 
my time. 

The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be 
out ; 

When I should guide the Church in 
peace at home. 

After my twenty years of banishment, 

And all my lifelong labor to uphold 



502 



QUEEN MARY. 



The primacy — a heretic. Long ago, 

When I was ruler in the patrimony, 

I was too lenient to the Lutheran, 

And I and learned friends among our- 
selves 

"Would freely canvass certain Luther- 
anisms. 

What then, he knew I was no Lutheran. 

A heretic ! 

He drew this shaft against me to the 
head. 

When it was thought I might be 
chosen Pope, 

But then withdrew it. In full con- 
sistory, 

When I was made Archbishop, he 
approved me. 

And how should he have sent me 
Legate hither, 

Deeming me heretic 1 and what heresy 
since "? 

But he was evermore mine enemy, 

And hates the Spaniard — fiery-chol-. 
eric, 

A drinker of black, strong, volcanic 
wines. 

That ever make him fierier. I, a 
heretic ? 

Your Highness knows that in pursu- 
ing heresy 

I liave gone beyond your late Lord 
Chancellor, — 

He cried Enough ! enough ! before 
his death. — 

Gone beyond him and mine own nat- 
ural man 

(It was God's cause) ; so far they call 
me now, 

The scourge and butcher of their Eng- 
lish church. 
Mary. Have courage, your reward 

is Heaven itself. 
Pole. They groan amen ; they 
swarm into the fire 

Like flies — for what ? no dogma. 
They know nothing ; 

They burn for nothing. 

Mary. You have done your best. 
Pole. Have done my best, and as a 
faithful son. 

That all day long hath wrought his 

father's work. 
When back he comes at evening hath 

the door 
Shut on him by the father whom he 

loved, 
His early follies cast into his teeth, 
And the poor son turn'd out into the 

street 
To sleep, to die — I shall die of it, 
cousin. 
Mary. I pray you be not so discon- 
solate ; 
I still will do mine utmost with the 
Pope. 



Poor cousin ! 

Have not I been the fast friend of 

your life 
Since mine began, and it was thought 

we two 
Might make one flesh, and cleave 

unto each other 
As man and wife 1 

Pole. Ah, cousin, I remember 

How I would dandle you upon my 

knee 
At lisping-age. I watch'd you danc- 
ing once 
With your huge father ; he look'd the 

Great Harry, 
You but his cockboat; prettily you 

did it, 
And innocently. No — we were not 

made 
One flesh in happiness, no happiness 

here ; 
But now we are made one flesh in 

misery ; 
Our bridemaids are not lovely — Dis- 
appointment, 
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, 
Labor-in-vain. 

Mary. Surely, not all in vain. 

Peace, cousin, peace ! I am sad at 

heart myself. 
Pole. Our altar is a mound of dead 

men's clay. 
Dug from the grave that yawns for 

lis beyond ; 
And there is one Death stands behind 

the Groom, 
And there is one Death stands behind 

the Bride — 
3Iary. Have you been looking at 

the " Dance of Death " f 
Pole. No; but these libellous papers 

which I found 
Strewn in your palace. Look you 

here — the Pope 
Pointing at me with " Pole, the here- 
tic. 
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn 

thyself, 
Or I will burn thee; " and this other ; 

see! — 
" We pray continually for the death 
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal 

Pole." 
This last — I dare not read it her. 

[Aside. 
Mary. Away ! 

Why do you bring me these 1 
I thought you knew me better. I 

never read, 
I tear them ; they come back upon my 

dreams. 
The hands that write them should be 

burnt clean off 
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that 

utter them 



QUEEN MARY. 



503 



Tongue-torn with jjincers, lash'd to 
death, or lie 

Famisliing in black cells, while fam- 
ish'd rats 

Eat them alive. Why do they bring 
me these ? 

Do you mean to drive me mad ? 
Pole. I had forgotten 

How these poor libels trouble you. 
Your pardon. 

Sweet cousin, and farewell ! " bub- 
ble world, 

AVhose colors in a moment break and 
fly!" 

Why, who said that ? I know not — 
true enough ! 
\_Puis vp the papers, all hut the last, 
ichich falls. Exit Pole. 
Alice. If Cranmer's spirit were a 
mocking one, 
And heard these two, there might be 
sport for him. \_Aside. 

Marti. Clarence, they hate me ; 
even while I sjieak 
There lurks a silent dagger, listening 
In some dark closet, some long gal- 
lery, drawn. 
And panting for my blood as I go by. 
Ladij Clarence. Nay, Madam, there 
be loyal papers too. 
And I have often found them. 

Manj. Find me one ! 

Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam ; but 
Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chan- 
cellor, 
Would see your Highness. 
Mary. Wherefore should I see 

him 1 
Ladij Clarence. Well, Madam, he 
may bring you news from 
Philip. 
Manj. So, Clarence. 
Lady Clarence. Let me first put 
up your hair ; 
It tumbles all abroad. 

21ary. And the gray dawn 

Of an old age that never will be mine 
Is all the clearer seen. No, no ; what 

matters ? 
Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. 

Enter Sir Nicholas Heath. 

Heath. I bring your Majesty such 
grievous news 
I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais 
is taken. 

Mary. What traitor spoke ? Here, 
let my cousin Pole 
Seize him and burn him for a Lu- 
theran. 

Heath. Her Highness is unwell. I 
will retire. 

Lady Clarence. Madam, your Chan- 
cellor, Sir Nicholas Heath. 

Mary. Sir Nicholas ! I am stunn'd 
— Nicholas Heath ? 



Methought some traitor smote me on 

the head. 
What said you, my good Lord, that 

our brave English 
Had sallied out from Calais and 

driven back 
The Frenchmen from their trenches ? 
Heath. Alas ! no. 

That gateway to the mainland over 

which 
Our flag hath floated for two hundred 

years 
Is France again. 

Mary. So ; but it is not lost — 

Not yet. Send out : let England as of 

old 
Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep 

into 
The prey they are rending from her 

— ay, and rend 
The renders too. Send out, send out, 

and make 
'Musters in all the counties; gather 

all 
From sixteen years to sixty; collect 

the fleet ; 
Let every craft that carries sail and 

gun 
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not 
taken yet ? 
Heath. Guisnes is not taken yet^ 
Mary. There is yet hope. 

Heath. Ah, Madam, but your peo- 
ple are so cold ; 
I do much fear that England will not 

care. 
Methinks there is no manhood left 
among us. 
Mary. Send out ; I am too weak to 
stir abroad : 
Tell my mind to the Council — to the 

Parliament : 
Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art 

cold thyself 
To babble of their coldness. O would 

I were 
My father for an hour ! Away now — 
Quick! [Exit Rcath. 

I hoped I had served God with all my 

might ! 
It seems I have not. Ah ! much 

heresy 
Sheltered in Calais. Saints, I have 

rebuilt 
Your shrines, set up your broken 

images ; 
Be comfortable to me. Suffer not 
That my brief reign in England be 

defamed 
Thro' all her angry chronicles here- 
after 
By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. 

Philip, 
We have made war upon the Holy 
Father 



504 



QUEEN MARY. 



All for your sake : what good could 
come of that ? 
Lady Clarence. No, Sladam, not 
against the Holy Father; 
You did but help King Philip's war 

with France, 
Your troops were never down in Italy. 
Marij. I am a byword. Heretic and 
rebel 
Point at me and make merry. Philip 

gone ! 
And Calais gone ! Time that I were 
gone too ! 
Lady Clarence. Nay, if the fetid 
gutter had a voice 
And cried I was not clean, what 

should I care 1 
Or you, for heretic cries 1 And I 

believe. 
Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas, 
Your England is as loyal as myself. 
Mary (seeincj the paper dropt by Pole). 
There ! there ! another paper ! 
Said you not 
Many of these were loyal ? Shall I 

try 
If this be one of such ? 

Lady Clarence. Let it be, let it be. 

God pardon me ! I have never yet 

found one. \_Aside. 

Mary (reads). "Your people hate 

, you as your husband hatesyou." 

Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? 

what sin 
Beyond all grace, all pardon? Mother 

of God, 
Thou knowest woman never meant so 

well. 
And fared so ill in this disastrous 

world. 
My people hate me and desire my 
death. 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam, no. 
Mary. Isly husband hates me, and 

desires my death. 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam ; these 

are libels. 
Mary. I hate myself, and I desire 

my death. 
Lady Clarence. Long live j'our 
Majesty! Shall Alice sing 
you 
One of her pleasant songs ? Alice, 

my child. 
Bring us your lute (Alice c/oes). They 

say the gloom of Saul 
"Was lighten'd by young David's harp. 
Mary. Too yoimg ! 

And never knew a Philip. 

Be-enter Alice. 

Give me the lute. 
He hates me ! 

{She sinijs.) 
Hapless doom of woman happy in betroth- 
ing! 



Beauty passc-s like a breath and love is lost 
in loathing : 

Low, my lute ; speak low, my lute, but say 
the world is nothing — 
Low, lute, low ! 

Love will hover round the flowers when they 
first awaken ; 

Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be over- 
taken ; 

Low, my lute ! oh low, my lute ! we fade and 
are forsaken — 

Low, dear li'te, low ! 

Take it awa j* ! not low enough for me ! 

Alice. Your Grace hath a low voice. 

Mary. How dare you saj- it ? 

Even for that he hates me. A low 

voice 
Lost in a wilderness where none can 

hear ! 
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless 

sea! 
A low voice from the dust and from 

the grave 
(Sitting on the ground). There, am I 

low enough now ? 
Alice. Good Lord ! how grim and 

ghastly looks her Grace, 
With both her knees drawn upward to 

her chin. 
There was an old-world tomb beside 

my father's. 
And this was open'd, and the dead 

were found 
Sitting, and in this fashion ; she looks 

a corpse. 

Enter Lady jNIagdalex Dacres. 

Lady Magdalen. Madam, the C'oinit 
de Feria waits without. 
In hopes to see your Highness. 

Lady Clarence {pointing to Mary). 
Wait he must — 
Her trance again. She neither sees 

nor hears. 
And may not speak for hours. 

Lady Magdalen. Unhappiest 

Of Queens and wives and women ! 
Alice {in the foreground 'with Lady 
Magdalen.) And all along 

Of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen. Not so loud ! Our 
Clarence there 
Sees ever such an aureole round the 

Queen, 
It gilds the greatest wronger of her 

peace. 
Who stands the nearest to her. 

Alice. Ay, this Philip ; 

I used to love the Queen with all my 

heart — 
God help me, but methinks I love her 

less 
For such a dotage upon such a man. 
I would I were as tall and strong as 
you. 
Lady Magdalen. I seem half -shamed 
at times to be so tall. 



QUEEN MARY. 



505 



Alice. You are the stateliest deer in 
all the herd — 
Beyond his aim — but I am small and 

scandalous, 
And love to hear bad tales of Philip. 
Lad ij Magdalen. Why? 

I never heard him utter worse of j-ou 
Than that you were low-statured. 

Alice. Does he think 

Low stature is low nature, or all wom- 
en's 
Low as his own ? 

Lady Magdalen. There you strike 
in the nail. 
This coarseness is a want of phantasj'. 
It is the low man thinks the woman 

low ; 
Sin is too dull to see beyond himself. 
Alice. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as 
well as dull. 
How dared lie ? 

Ladij Magdalen. Stupid soldiers oft 
are bold. 
Poor lads, they see not what the gen- 
eral sees, 
A risk of utter ruin. I am not 
Beyond his aim, or was not. 

Alice. Who 1 Not you ? 

Tell, tell me ; save my credit with 

myself. 

Lady Magdalen. I never breathed 

it to a bird in the eaves. 

Would not for all the stars and 

maiden moon 
Our drooping Queen should know ! In 

Hampton Court 
My window look'd iipon the corri- 
dor; 
And I was robing ; — this poor throat 

of mine. 
Barer than I should wish a man to see 

it,— 
When lie we speak of drove the win- 
dow back. 
And, like a thief, pusli'd in his royal 

hand ; 
But by God's providence a good stout 

staff 
Lay near me ; and you know me 

strong of arm ; 
I do believe I lamed his Majesty's 
For a day or two, the', give the Devil 

his due, 
I never found he bore me any spite. 
Alice. I would she could have wed- 
ded that poor youth. 
My Lord of Devon — light enough, 

God knows. 
And mixt with Wyatt's rising — and 

the boy 
Not out of him — but neither cold, 

coarse, cruel, 
And more than all — no Spaniard. 

Lady Clarence. Not so loud. 

Lord Devon, girls ! what are you 
whispering here ? 



Alice. Probing an old state-secret — 

how it chanced 
That this young Earl was sent on 

foreign travel, 
Not lost his head. 

Lady Clarence. There was no proof 

against him. 
Alice. Nay, Madam ; did not Gardi- 
ner intercept 
A letter which the Count de Noaillcs 

wrote 
To that dead traitor Wyatt, with full 

proof 
Of Courtenay's treason ? What be- 
came of that "? 
Lady Clarence. Some say that 
Gardiner, out of love for him. 
Burnt it, and some relate that it was 

lost 
When Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's 

house in Southwark. 
Let dead things rest. 

Alice. Ay, and with him who died 
Alone in Italy. 

L^ady Clarence. Much changed, I 
hear, 
Had put off levity and put graveness 

on. 
The foreign courts report him in his 

manner 
Noble as his j'oung person and old 

shield. 
It might be so — but all is over 

now; 
He caught a chill in the lagoons of 

Venice, 
And died in Padua. 

Mary (looking up suddenly). Died 

in the true faith 1 
Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam, happily. 
Mary. Happier he than I. 

Lady Magdalen. It seems her High- 
ness hath awaken'd. Think you 
That I might dare to tell her that the 

Count 

Mary. I will see no man hence for 
evermore. 
Saving my confessor and niv cousin 
Pole. 
Lady Magdalen. It is the Count de 

Feria, my dear lady. 
Mary. What Count 1 

Lady Magdalen. The Count de 
Feria, from his Majesty 
King Philip. 

Mary. Philip ! quick ! loop up my 
hair ! 
Throw cushions on that seat, and make 

it throne-like. 
Arrange mj'- dress — the gorgeous 

Indian shawl 
That Philip brought me in our happy 

days ! — 
That covers all. So — am I somewhat 
Queenlike, 



506 



QUEEN MARY. 



Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon 
earth ? 
hadij Clarence. A)-, so your Grace 

would bide a moment yet. 
Mary. Xo, no, he brings a letter. 
I may die 
Before I read it. Let me see him at 
once. 

Enter Count de Feeia (kneels). 
Feria. I trust your Grace is well. 

(liside) How her hand burns ! 
Mary. I am not well, but it will 
better me. 
Sir Count, to read the letter which 
3'^ou bring. 
Feria. Madam, I bring no letter. 
Mary. How ! no letter '? 

Feria. His Highness is so vex'd with 

strange affairs — 
Mary. That his own wife is no affair 

of his. 
Feria. Nay, Madam, nay ! he sends 
his veriest love. 
And saj'S, he will come quickly. 

Mary. Doth he, indeed ? 

You, sir, do you remember what you 

said 
When last you came to England ■? 

Feria. Madam, I brought 

My King's congratulations ; it was 

hoped 
Your Highness was once more in happy 

state 
To give him an heir male. 

Mary. Sir, you said more ; 

You said he would come quickly. I 

had horses 
On all the road from Dover, day and 

night ; 
On all the road from Harwich, night 

and day ; 
But the child came not, and the hus- 
band came not ; 
And yet he will come quickly. . . 

Thou hast learnt 
Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no 

need 
For Philip so to shame himself again. 
Return, 
And tell him that I know he comes no 

more. 
Tell him at last I know his love is 

dead. 
And that I am in state to bring forth 

death — 
Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth, 
And not to me ! 

Feria. Mere compliments and 
wishes. 
But shall I take some message from 
your Grace "? 
Mary. Tell her to come and close 
my dying eyes, 
And wear m}' crown, and dance upon 
my grave. 



Feria. Then I may say 3'our Grace 
will see your sister '? 
Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air 

and sunsliine. 
I would we had you, Madam, in our 

warm Spain. 
You droop in your dim London. 

Mary. Have him awaj' ! 

I sicken of liis readiness. 

Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, 

Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. 

Feria (kneels, and kisses Iter hand). 

I wish her Highness better. 

(Aside) How her hand burns ! 

[^Exeunt. 



SCENE in.— A House Near 
London. 

Elizabeth, Steavakd or the House- 
hold, Attendants. 

Elizabeth. There's half an angel 
wrong'd in your account ; 
Methinks I am all angel, that I bear 

it 
Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er 
again. 
Steivard. I were whole devil if I 
wrong'd you, Madam. 

\^Exit Steward. 
Attendant. The Count de Feria from 

the King of Spain. 
Elizabeth. Ah ! — let him enter. 
Nay, you need not go : 

[ To her Ladies. 
Remain within the chamber, but apart. 
We'll have no private conference. 
Welcome to England ! 

Enter Fekia. 

Feria. Fair island star ! 

Elizabeth. I shine ! What else. Sir 

Count ? 
Feria. As far as France, and into 
Philip's heart. 
My King would know if you be fairly 

served. 
And lodged, and treated. 

Elizabeth. You see the lodging, sir, 

I am well-served, and am in everything 

Most loyal and most grateful to the 

Queen. 

Feria. You should be grateful to 

my master, too. 

He spoke of this ; and unto him you 

owe 
Tliat Mary hath acknowledged you 
her heir. 
Elizabeth. No, not to her nor him ; 
but to the peoijle. 
Who know my right, and love me, as 

I love 
The people ! whom God aid ! 

Feria. You will be Queen, 



QUEEN MARY. 



507 



And, were I Philip — 

Elizabeth. Wlierefore pause you — 

what ■? 
Feria. Naj^, but I speak from mine 

own self, not him ; 
Your royal sister cannot last ; your 

hand 
Will be much coveted ! What a deli- 
cate one ! 
Our Spanish ladies have none such — 

and there. 
Were you in Spain, this fine fair gos- 
samer gold — 
Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty 

dawn — 
That hovers round your sliouldcr — 

Elizabeth. Is it so fine 1 

Troth, some have said so. 

Feria. — would be deemed a mira- 
cle. 
Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold 

hair and golden beard ; 
There must be ladies many with hair 

like mine. 
Feria. Some fcM' of Gothic blood 

have golden hair, 
But none like yours. 

Elizabeth. I am happy you approve 

it. 
Feria. But as to Philip and your 

Grace — consider, — 
If such a one as you should match 

with Spain, 
What hinders but that Spain and 

England join'd. 
Should make the mightiest empire 

earth has known. 
Spain would be England on her seas, 

and England 
Mistress of the Indies. 

Elizabeth. It may chance, that 

England 
Will be the Mistress of the Indies yet. 
Without the help of Spain. 

Feria. Impossible ; 

Except you put Spain down. 
Wide of the mark ev'n for a madman's 

dream. 
Elizabeth. Perhaps; but we have 

seamen. Count de Feria, 
I take it that the King hath spoken 

to you ; 
But is Don Carlos such a goodly 

match 1 
Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but 

twelve years old. 
Elizabeth. Ay, tell the King that I 

will muse upon it ; 
He is my good friend, and I would 

keep him so ; 
But — he would have me Catholic of 

Home, 
And that I scarce can be ; and, sir, till 

now 
My sister's marriage, and my father's 

marriages. 



Make me full fain to live and die a 

maid. 
But I am much beholden to your 

King. 
Have you aught else to tell me ? 

Feria. Notliing, Madam, 

Save that methought I gather'd from 

the Queen 
That she would see your Grace before 

she — died. 
Elizabeth. God's death ! and where- 
fore spake you not before ? 
We dally with our lazy moments here, 
And hers are number'd. Horses 

there, without ! 
I am much beholden to the King, your 

master. 
Why did j'OU keep me prating 1 

Horses, there ! 

[Exit Elizabeth, etc. 
Feria. So from a clear sky falls the 

thunderbolt ! 
Don Carlos ? Madam, if you marry 

Philip, 
Then I and he will snaffle your " God's 

death," 
And brake your paces in, and make 

you tame ; 
God's death, forsooth — you do not 

know King Philip. [Exit. 



SCENE IV.— London. 
THE Palace. 



Before 



A light hurninci within. Voices of the 
night passing. 

First. Is not yon light in the 

Queen's chamber? 
Second. Ay, 

They say she's dying. 

First. So is Cardinal Pole. 

May the great angels join their wings, 

and make 
Down for their heads to heaven ! 
Second. Amen. Come on. 

[Exeunt. 

Two Others. 

First. There's the Queen's light. 

I hear she cannot live. 
Second. God curse her and her 

Legate ! Gardiner burns 
Already ; but to pay them full in kind, 
The hottest hold in all the devil's den 
Were but a sort of winter ; sir, in 

Guernsey, 
I watch'd a woman burn ; and in her 

agony 
The mother came upon her — a child 

was born — 
And, sir, they hurl'd it back into tlie 

fire, 
That, being but baptised in fire, the 

babe 



508 



QUEEN MARY. 



Might be in fire for ever. Ah, good 

neighbor, 
There should be something fierier than 

fire 
To yield them their deserts. 

First. Amen to all. 

Your Avish, and further. 

^1 Third Voice. Deserts ! Amen to 
what ^ Whose deserts ? Yours ? 
You have a gold ring on j'our finger, 
and soft raiment about your body; 
and is not the woman up yonder sleep- 
ing after all she has done, in peace and 
quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed 
room, with light, fire, physic, tend- 
ance ; and I have seen the true men 
of Christ lying famine-dead by scores, 
and under no ceiling but the cloud that 
wept on them, not for them. 

First. Friend, tho' so late, it is not 

safe to i>reach. 
You had best go home. What are 

you? 
Third. What am I ? One who cries 
continually with sweat and tears to 
the Lord God that it would please Him 
out of His infinite love to break down 
all kingship and queenship, all priest- 
hood and prelacy ; to cancel and 
abolish all bonds of human allegiance, 
all the magistracy, all the nobles, and 
all the wealthy ; and to send us again, 
according to His promise,the one King, 
the Christ, and all things in common, 
as in the day of the first church, Avhen 
Christ Jesus was King. 

First. If ever I heard a madman, 

— let's away ! 
Why, you long-winded Sir, you 

go beyond me. 
I pride myself on being moderate. 
Good night ! Go home. Besides, you 

curse so loiid. 
The watch will hear you. Get you 

home at once. {^Exeunt. 



SCENE v.— London. A Room in 
THE Palace. 

A Gallerif on one side. The moonlight 
streaming through a range of windows 
on the wall opposite. Mary, Lady 
Clarence, Lady' iNLvgdalen 
Dacres, Alice. Queen pacing the 
Gallery. A writing-table in front. 
Queen comes to the table and writes 
and goes again, pacing the Gallerg. 

Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim : 

what hath she written ? read. 
Alice. "I am dying, Philip; come 

to me." 
Lady Magdalen. There ^ — up and 

down, poor lady, up and down. 
Alice. And how her shadow crosses 

one bv one 



The moonlight casements pattern'd on 

the wall. 
Following her like her sorrow. She 
turns again. 
[Queen sits and icrites, and goes again. 
Lady Clarence. What hath she 

written now ? 
Alice. Nothing ; but " come, come, 
come," and all awry, 
And blotted by her tears. This can- 
not last. [Queen returns. 
Mary. I whistle to the bird has 
broken cage. 
And all in vain. l_Sitting down. 
Calais gone — Guisnes gone, too — 
and Philip gone ! 
Lady Clarence. Dear !Madam, Philip 
is but at the wars ; 
I cannot doubt but that he comes 

again ; 
And he is with you in a measure still. 
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness 
As your great King in armor there, 

his hand 
Upon his helmet. 

[^Pointing to the portrait of Philip on 

the wall. 
Mary. Doth he not look noble ? 
I had heard of him in battle over 

seas. 
And I would have my warrior all in 

arms. 
He said it was not courtly to stand 

helmeted 
Before the Queen. He had his gra- 
cious moment, 
Altho' you'll not believe me. How 

he smiles 
As if he loved me yet ! 

Lady Clarence. And so he does. 

Mary. He never loved me — nay, 
he could not love me. 
It was his father's policy against 

France. 
I am eleven years older than he. 
Poor boy ! [ Weeps. 

Alice. That was a lusty boy of 
twenty-seven ; \_Aside. 

Poor enough in God's grace ! 

Mary. — And all in vain ! 

The Qi;een of Scots is married to the 

Dauphin, 
And Charles, the lord of this low 

world, is gone ; 
And all his wars and wisdoms past 

away ; 
And in a moment I shall follow 
him. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, dearest Lady, 

see your good physician. 
Mary, Drugs — but he knows they 
cannot help me — says 
That rest is all — tells me I must not 

think — 
That I must rest — I shall rest bv and 

by. 



QUEEN MARY. 



509 



Catch the wild cat, cage liim, and when 

he springs 
And maims himself against the bars, 

say " rest" : 
AVhy, you must kill him if you would 

iiavo him rest — 
Dead or alive you cannot make him 

happy. 
Ladij Clarence. Your Majesty has 

lived so pure a life, 
And done such mighty things by Holy 

Church, 
I trust that God will make you happy 

yet. ^ 
Marif. What is the strange thing 

happiness ? Sit down here : 
Tell me thine happiest hour. 

Lady Clarence. I will, if that 

May make your Grace forget yourself 

a little. 
Tliere runs a shallow brook across our 

field 
For twenty miles, where the black 

crow flies five, 
And doth so bound and babble all the 

way 
As if itself were hai^py. It was May- 
time, 
And I was walking with the man I 

loved. 
I loved him, but I thought I was not 

loved. 
And both were silent, letting the wild 

brook 
Speak for us — till he stoop'd and 

gatlier'd one 
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, 
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and 

gave it me. 
I took it, the' I did not know I took it, 
And put it in my bosom, and all at 

once 
I felt his arms about me, and his lips — 
jSIarif. God ! I have been too 

slack, too slack ; 
There are Hot Gosijellers even among 

our guards — 
Nobles we dared not touch. We have 

but burnt 
The heretic priest, workmen, and 

women and children. 
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, 

wreck, wrath, — 
We have so play'd the coward ; but by 

God's grace, 
AYe'U follow Philip's leading, and set 

up 
The Holy Office here — garner the 

wheat. 
And burn the tares with uncxuenchable 

fire! 
Burn ! — 
Fie, what a savor ! tell the cooks to 

close 
The doors of all the oflJces below. 
Latimer! 



Sir, we are private with our women 

here — 
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly 

fellow — 
Thou light a torch that never will go out ! 
'Tis out — mine flames. Women, the 

Holy Father 
Has ta'en the legateship from our 

cousin Pole — 
Was that well done ? and poor Pole 

pines of it. 
As I do, to the death. I am but a 

woman, 
I have no power. — Ah, weak and 

. meek old man. 
Seven-fold dishonor'd even in the 

sight 
Of thine own sectaries — No, no. No 

pardon ! — 
Why that was false : there is the right 

hand still 
Beckons me hence. 
Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for 

treason. 
Remember tliat ! 'twas I and Bonner 

did it. 
And Pole ; we arc three to oije — Have 

you found mercy tliere, 
Grant it me here : and see, he smiles 

and goes. 
Gentle as in life. 

Alice. Madam, who goes ? King 

Philip 1 
Man/. No, Philip comes and goes, 

but never goes. 
Women, when I am dead. 
Open my heart, and there you will 

find written 
Two names, Philip and Calais ; open 

his, — 
So that he have one, — 
You will find Philip only, policy, pol- 
icy, — 
Ay, worse than that — not one hour 

true to me ! 
Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd 

vice ! 
Adulterous to the very heart of Hell. 
Hast thou a knife ? 

Alice. Ay, Madam, but o' God's 

mercy — 
Mary. Fool, think'st thou I would 

peril mine own soul 
By slaughter of the body ? I could 

not, girl. 
Not this way — callous with a constant 

strijie, 
Unwoimdablo. The knife ! 

Alice. Take heed, take heed! 

The blade is keen as death. 

Mari/. This Philip shall not 

Stare in upon me in my haggardness ; 
Old, miserable, diseased. 
Incapable of children. Come thou 

down. 
\^Cuts out the picture and throws it down. 



510 



QUEEN MARY. 



Lie 



liave 



A 
I'll 



there. (WaUs) God, I 
kill'd my Philip ! 
Alice. No, 

Madam, you have but cut the canvas 

out ; 
We can replace it. 

Martj. All is well then ; rest — 

I will to rest ; he said, I must have 
rest. [CV/ti- of" Elizabeth " in 
the street. 
A cry ! What's that ? Elizabeth ? re- 
volt '. 
new Northumberland, another 

Wyatt "? 
fight it on the threshold of the 
grave. 
Ladi/ Clarence. Madam, your royal 

sister comes to see you. 
Marij. I will not see her. 
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be 

my sister ? 
I will see none e.xccpt tlie priest. Your 
arm. \_To Lady Clarence. 

O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet 

worn smile 
Among thy patient wrinkles — Help 
me hence. [^Exeunt. 

The Pkiest passes. Enter Elizabeth 

and Sir William Cecil. 
Elizabeth. Good counsel yours — 

No one in waiting ? still, 
As if the chamberlain were Death 

himself ! 
The room she sleeps in — is not this 

the way '. 
No, that way there are voices. Am I 

too late 1 
Cecil . . . God guide me lest I lose 

the way. \^Exit Elizabeth. 

Cecil. Many points weather'd, many 

perilous ones, 
At last a harbor opens ; but therein 
Sunk rocks — they need fine steering 

— much it is 

To be nor mad, nor bigot — have a 
mind — 

Nor let the Priests talk, or dream of 
worlds to be, 

Miscolor things about her — sudden 
touches 

For him, or liim — sunk rocks ; no 
passionate faith — 

But — if let be — balance and com- 
promise ; 

Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her 

— a Tudor 

School'd by the shadow of death — a 

Boleyn, too. 
Glancing across the Tudor — not so 
Avell. 

Enter Alice. 
How is the good Queen now 1 

Alice. Away from Philip. 

Back in her childhood — prattling to 
her mother 



Of 



to the Emperor 



her betrothal 
Charles, 
And childlike-jealous of him again — 

and once 
She thank'd her father sweetlj- for his 

book 
Against that godless German. Ah, 

those days 
Were happy. It was never merry 

world 
In England, since the Bible came 
among us. 
Cecil. And who says that 1 
Alice. It is a saying among the 

Catholics. 
Cecil. It never will be merry world 
in England, 
Till all men have their Bible, rich and 
poor. 
Alice. The Queen is dying, or you 
dare not say it. 

Eiiter Elizabeth. 
Elizabeth. The Queen is dead. 
Cecil. Then here she stands ! my 

homage. 
Elizabeth. She knew me, and ac- 
knowledged me her heir, 
Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep 

the Faith ; 
Tlien claspt the cross, and pass'd 

away in peace. 
I left her lying still and beautiful, 
Morebeautifulthaninlife. WhjMvould 

j^ou vex yourself. 
Poor sister '? Sir, I swear I have no 

heart 
To be your Queen. To reign is rest- 
less fence, 
Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is 

with the dead. 
Her life was winter, 

was nipt: 
And she loved much 

be forgiven. 
Cecil. Peace with 

never were at peace ! 
Yet she loved one so much — I needs 

must say — 
That never English monarch dying left 

England so little. 
Elizabeth. But with Cecil's aid 

And others, if our person be secured 
From traitor stabs — we will make 

England great. 

Enter Paget, and other Lords (jk the 
Council, Sir Ralph Bagenhall, 
etc. 
Lords. God save Elizabeth, the 

Queen of England ! 
Bar/enJiall. God save the Crown ! 

the Pai)acy is no more. 
r<i(/et (aside). Are we so sure of 

that ? 
Acclamatiun. God save the Queen ! 



for her spring 

pray God she 

the dead, who 



HAEOLD : 

A DKAMA. 

To His Excellency 
THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON, 

Viceroy and Goverimr-General of India. 

Mt dear Lord Lttton, — After old-world records — such as the Bayeux tapestry and 
the Roman de Kou, — Edward Freeman's History of the Norman Ooncfuest, and your 
father's Historical Komance treating of the same times, have been mainly helpful to me in 
writing this Drama. Your father dedicated his " Harold " to my father's brotlier; allow me 
to dedicate my " Harold " to yourself. A. TENNYSON 



SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE ABBEY, 187G. 

A o.\RDEX here — May breath and bloom of sprmg — 

The cuckoo yonder from an English elm 

Crying " with my false egg I overwhelm 

The native nest : " and fancy hears the ring 

Of harness, and that deatliful arrow sing, 

And Saxon battleaxe clang on Norman helm. 

Here rose the dragon-banner of otir realm : 

Here fought, liere fell, our Norman slander'd king. 

O Garden blossoming out of English blood ! 

O strange hate-healer Time ! We stroll and stare 

Wliere might made right eight hundred years ago ; 

Might, right ? ay good, so all things make for good — 

But he and he, if soul be soul, are where 

Each stands full face with all he did below. 



DRAMATIS PERSOX.E. 

King Edward the Confessor. 

Stigand, created Archbishop of Canterbury by the Antipope Benedict. 

Aldred, Archbishop of Yorl: The Norman Bishop of London. 

Harold, Earl of ]Vessex, afterivards King of England "] 

Tostig, Eurl of Xortliumhria I c - 

GuRTH, Earl of East Anglia •■ j- ™ 7 

Leofwin, Earl of Kent and Essex brodwin. 

wulfnoth j 

Count William of Normandy. William Rufus. 

William Malet, a Norman Noble.^ 

Edavin, Earl of Mercia \ Sons of Alfgar of , 

MORCAR, Earl of Northumbria afier Tostig ) Mercia. 

Gamel, a Nortlmmbrian Thane. Guy, Coimt of Ponthieu. 

Rolf, a Ponthieu Fisherman. Hugh Margot, a Norman Monk. 

OsGOD and Athelric, Canons from Waltham. 

The Queen, Edward the Confessor's Wife, Daughter of Godwin. 

Aldwyth, Daughter of Alfgar and Widoir of Griffyth, King of Wales. 

Edith, Ward of King Edward. 

Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, ]Men-at-Arms, Canons of Waltham, 
Fishermen, etc. 

I . . . quidam panim Normannus et Auglus 
Compater Heraldi. ( (luij of Amiens, bS~7) 



512 



HAROLD. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. — London. The King's 
Palace. 

[A comet seen through the open icindow.) 

Aldwyth, Gamel, Courtiers talking 
together. 

First Courtier. Lo ! there once more 
— this is the seventh night ! 
You grimly-glaring, treble-brandish'd 

scourge 
Of England! 

Second Courtier. Horrible ! 
First Courtier. Look you, there's 
a star 
That dances in it as mad with agony ! 
Third Courtier. Ay, like a spirit in 
Hell who skips and flies 
To right and left, and cannot scape 
the flame. 
Second Courtier. Steam'd upward 
from the undescendable 
Abysm. 

First Courtier. Or floated doM'n- 
ward from the throne 
Of God Almighty. 

Aldivyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means 1 
Gamel. War, my dear lady ! 

Aldwt/th. Doth this affright thee ? 
Gamel. Mightily, my dear lady ! 
Aldwijth. Stand by me then, and 
look upon my face, . 
Not on the comet. 

{Enter Morcar.) 

Brother ! M-hy so pale 1 

Morcar. It glares in heaven, it 

flares upon the Thames, 

The people are as thick as bees below, 

They hum like bees, — they cannot 

speak — for awe ; 
Look to the skies, then to the river, 

strike 
Their hearts, and hold their babies up 

to it. 
I think that they would Molochize 

them too, 
To have the heavens clear. 

Aldwytli. I^ey fright not me. 

(Enter Leofwin, after him Girth.) 

Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he 
thinks of this ! 
Morcar. Lord Leofwin, dost thou 
believe, that these 

Three rods of blood-red fire up yon- 
der mean 

The doom of England and the wrath 
of Heaven ? 
Bishop of London {pass inn). Did ye 
not cast with bestial violence 



Our holy Norman bishops down from 

all 
Their thrones in England ? I alone 

remain. 
Why should not Heaven be wroth ? 
Leofu-in. With us, or thee ? 

Bishop of London. Did ye not out- 
law your archbishop Robert, 
Robert of Jumie'ges — well-nigh mur- 
der him too f 
Is there no reason for the wrath of 
Heaven ? 
Leofu-in. Why then the wrath of 
Heaven hath three tails, 
The devil only one. 

\_Exit Bishop of London. 

{Enter Archbishop Stigand.) 

Ask our Archbishop. 
Stigand should know the purposes of 
Heaven. 
Stigand. Not I. I cannot read the 
face of heaven ; 
PerhaiJS our vines will grow the better 
for it. 
Leofu-in {laughinr/). He can but read 

the king's face on his coins. 
Stigand. Ay, ay, young lord, there 

the king's face is power. 
Gurth. father, mock not at a 
public fear. 
But tell us, is this pendent hell in 

heaven 
A harm to England ? 

Stigand. Ask it of King Edward ! 
And he maj^ tell thee, / am a harm to 

England. 
Old uncanonical Stigand — ask of me 
Who had my pallium from an Anti- 
pope ! 
Not he the man — for in our windy 

world 
What's up is faith, what's down is 

heresy. 
Our friends, the Normans, holp to 

shake his chair. 
I luive a Norman fever on me, son. 
And cannot answer sanely . . . What 

it means ? 
Ask our broad Earl. 

\_Pninting to Harold, ivho enters. 
Harold {seeing Gamel). Hail, Ga- 
mel, son of Orm! 
Albeit no rolling stone, my good friend 

Gamel, 
Thou hast rounded since we met. 

Thy life at home 
Is easier than mine here. Look ! am 

I not 
Work-wan, flesh-fallen 1 

Gamel. Art thou sick, good 

Earl ? 
Llarold. Sick as an autumn swal- 
low for a voyage. 
Sick for an idle Meek of hawk and 
hound 



HAROLD. 



513 



Beyond the seas — a change ! When 

earnest thou hither ? 
Game!. To-day, good Earl. 
Harold. Is the North quiet, Gamel ? 
Gamel. Nay, there be murmurs, for 

tliy brotlier lireaks us 
"With over-taxing — quiet, ay, as yet — 
Notliing as yet. 

Harold. Stand by him, mine old 

friend. 
Thou art a great voice in Northum- 
berland ! 
Advise him : speak him sweetly, he 

will hear thee. 
He is passionate but honest. Stand 

thou by liim ! 
More talk of tliis to-morrow, if yon 

weird sign 
Not blast us in our dreams. — Well, 

father Stigaiul — 
\_To Stigand, who advances to him. 
Stigand {pointing to the comet). War 

there, my son ? is that the doom 

of England ? 
Harold. Why not the doom of all 

the world as well ? 
For all the world sees it as well as 

England. 
These meteors came and went before 

our day, 
Not harming any : it threatens us no 

more 
Than French or Norman. War 1 the 

worst that follows 
Things that seem'd jerk'd out of the 

common rut 
Of Nature is the hot religious fool. 
Who, seeing war in heaven, for 

heaven's credit 
Makes it on earth: but look, where 

Edward draws 
A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tos- 

tig. 
He hath learnt to love our Tostig 

much of late. 
Leofwin. And he hath learnt, de- 
spite the tiger in him, 
To sleek and supple himself to the 

king's hand. 
Gurth. I trust the kingly touch 

that cures the evil 
May serve to charm tlie tiger out of 

him. 
Leofwin. He hath as much of cat 

as tiger in him. 
Our Tostig loves the hand and not 

the man. 
Harold. Nay ! Better die than lie ! 

Enter King, Queex, and Tostig. 
Edward. In heaven signs ! 

Signs upon earth ! signs everj-where ! 

your Priests 
Gross, worldly, simoniacal, unlearn'd! 
They scarce can read their Psalter; 
and your churches 



Uncouth, unhandsome, while in Nor- 

manland 
God speaks thro' abler voices, as He 

dwells 
In statelier shrines. I say not this, 

as being 
Half Norman-blooded, nor as some 

have held, 
Because I love the Norman better — 

no. 
But dreading God's revenge upon this 

realm 
For narrowness and coldness : and I 

say it 
For the last time perchance, before I 

go 
To find the sweet refreshment of the 

Saints. 
I have lived a life of utter purity : 
I have builded the great church of 

Holy Peter : 
I have wrought miracles — to God 

the glory — 
And miracles will in my name be 

wrought 
Hereafter* — I have fought the fight 

and go — 
I see the flashing of the gates of 

pearl — ■ 
And it is well with me, tho' some of 

you ^ 
Have scorn'd me — ay — but after I 

am gone 
Woe, woe to England ! I have had a 

vision ; 
The seven sleepers in the cave at 

EiJJiesus 
Have turn'd from right to left. 

Harold. My most dear Master, 

What matters 1 let them turn from 

k'ft to right 
And sleep again. 

Tostig. Too hardy with thy king ! 
A life of prayer and fasting well may 

see 
Deeper into the mysteries of heaven 
Than thou, good brother.* 

Aldwijth (aside). Sees he into thine, 
That thou wouldst have his promise 

for the crown "? 
Edward. Tostig says true ; my son, 

thou art too hard, 
Not stagger'd by this ominous earth 

and heaven : 
But heaven and earth are threads of 

the same loom. 
Play into one another, and weave the 

web 
That may confound thee yet. 

Harold. Nay, I trust not. 

For I have served thee long and 

honestly. 
Edward. I know it, son ; I am not 

thankless : thou 
Hast broken all my foes, lighten'd for 

me 



514 



HAROLD. 



The weight of this poor crown, and 

left me time 
And peace for prayer to gain a better 

one. 
Twelve years of service ! England 

loves thee for it. 
Thou art the man to rule her! 

Ahhciith [aside). So, not Tostig! 

Harold. And after those twelve 

years a boon, my king. 

Respite, a holiday : thyself wast wont 

To love the chase : thy leave to set 

my feet 
On board, and hunt and hawk bej^ ond 
the seas ! 
Edward. What with this flaming 

horror overhead ? 
Harold. AVell, when it passes then. 
Edward. Ay, if it pass. 

Go not to Normandy — go not to Nor- 
mandy. 
Harold. And wherefore not, my 
king, to Normandy ? 
Is not my brother Wulfnoth hostage 

there 
For my dead father's loyalty to thee ? 
I pray thee, let me hence and bring ^"^ 
him home. 
Edward. Not thee, my son : some 

other messenger. 
Harold. And why not me, my lord, 
to Normandy 1 
Is not the Norman Count thy friend 
and mine ? 
Edward. I pray thee, do not go to 

Normandy. 
Harold. Because my fatlier drove 
the Normans out 
Of England ? — That was many a 

summer gone — 
Eorgotten and forgiven by them and 
thee. 
Edward. Harold, I will not j'ield 

thee leave to go. 
Harold. Why then to Flanders. I 
will Ijawk and hunt 
In Flanders. 

Edward. Be there not fair woods 
and fields 
In England? Wilful, wilful. Go — 

the Saints 
Pilot and prosper all thy wandering- 
out 
And homeward. Tostig, I am faint 

again. 
Son Harold, 1 will in and pray for 
thee. 
\_Exit, leaning on Tostig, and fol- 
lowed hji Stigand, Morcar, and 
Courtiers. 
Harold. What lies upon the mind of 
our good king 
That he should harp this way on 
Normandy ? 
Queen. Brother, the king is wiser 
than he seems ; 



And Tostig knows it ; Tostig loves 

the king. 
Harold. And love should know; and 

— be the king so wise, — 
Then Tostig too were wiser than he 

seems. 
I love the man but not his phantasies. 

(Re-enter Tostig.) 
Well, brother, 
When didst thou hear from thy 

North umbria ? 
Tostig. When did I hear aught but 

this " When " from thee ? 
Leave me alone, brother, with my 

Northumbria : 
She is mi/ mistress, let me look to her! 
The King hath made me Earl ; make 

me not fool ! 
Nor make the King a fool, who made 

me Earl ! 
Harold. No, Tostig — lest I make 

myself a fool 
Who made the Iving who made thee, 

make thee Earl. 
Tostig. Why chafe me then? Thou 

knowest I soon go wild. 
Gurth. Come, come ! as yet thou art 

not gone so wild 
But thou canst hear the best and 

wisest of us. 
Harold. So says old Gurth, not I : 

yet hear ! thine earldom, 
Tostig, hath been a kingdom. Their 

old crown 
Is 3-et a force among them, a sun 

set 
But leaving light enough for Alfgar's 

house 
To strike thee down by — nay, this 

ghastly glare 
May heat their fancies. 

Tostig. My most worthy brother, 
Thou art the quietest man in all the 

world — • 
Ay, ay and wise in peace and great in 

war — 
Pray God the people choose thee for 

their king ! 
But all the powers of the house of 

Godwin 
Are not enframed in thee. 

Harold. Thank the Saints, no ! 

But thou hast drain'd them shallow 

by thy tolls, 
And thou art ever here about the 

King : 
Thine absence well may seem a want 

of care. 
Cling t(j their love ; for, now the sons 

of Godwin 
Sit topmost in the field of England, 

envy. 
Like the rough bear beneath the tree, 

good brother. 
Waits till the man let go. 



HAROLD. 



515 



Tostuj. Good counsel truly ! 

I heard from my Northumbria yester- 
day. 
Harold. How goes it then with thy 

Northumbria ? Well ? 
Tostig. And wouldst thou that it 

went auglit else than well? 
Harold. I would it went as well as 
with mine earldom, 
Leofwin's and Gurth's. 

Tostifj. Ye govern milder men. 

Gurth. We have made them milder 

by just government. 
Tostig. Ay, ever give yourselves 

your own good word. 
Leo/win. An honest gift, by all the 
Saints, if giver 
And taker be but honest ! but they 

bribe 
Each other, and so often, an honest 

world 
Will not believe them. 

Harold. I may tell thee, Tostig, 
I heard from thy Northumberland 
to-day. 
Tostig. From spies of thine to spy 
my nakedness 
In my poor North ! 

Harold. There is a movement there, 
A blind one — nothing yet. 

Tostig. Crush it at once 

With all the power I have ! — I must 

— I will ! — 
Crush it half-born ! Fool still ? or 

wisdom there, 
My wise head-shaking Harold 1 

Harold. Make not thou 

The nothing something. Wisdom 

when in power 
And wisest, should not frown as 

Power, but smile 
As kindness, watching all, till the true 

viust 
Shall make her strike as Power : but 

when to strike — 
O Tostig, dear brother — If they 

prance, 
Rein in, not lash them, lest they rear 

and run, 
And break both neck and axle. 

Tostig. Good again ! 

Good counsel tho' scarce needed. Pour 

not water 
In the full vessel running out at top 
To swamp the house. 

Leo/win. Nor thou be a wild thing 
Out of the waste, to turn and bite the 

hand 
Would help thee from the trap. 

Tostig. Thou playest in tune. 

• Leo/win. To the deaf adder thee, 

that wilt not dance 
However wisely charm'd. 

Tostig. No more, no more ! 

Gurth. I likewise cry " no more.'" 
Unwholesome talk 



For Godwin's house ! Leofwin, thou 

hast a tongue ! 
Tostig, thou look'st as thou wouldst 

spring upon him. 
St. Olaf, not wliile I am by ! Come, 

come, 
Join hands, let brethren dwell in unity; 
Let kith and kin stand close as our 

shield-wall, 
Who breaks us then "? I say, thou liast 

a tongue. 
And Tostig is not stout enough to bear 

it. 
Vex him not, Leofwin. 

Tostig. No, I am not vext, — 

Altho' j-e seek to vex me, one and all. 
I have to make report of my good 

earldom 
To the good king who gave it — not 

to you — 
Not any of you. — I am not vext at all. 
Harold. The king ? the king is ever 

at his jjrayers ; 
In all that handles matter of the 

state 
I am the king. 

Tostig. That shalt thou never be 
If I can thwart thee. 

Harold. Brother, brother! 

Tostig. Awav ! 

\_Exit Tostig. 
Queen. Spite of this grisly star ye 

three must gall 
Poor Tostig. 

Leofirin. Tostig, sister, galls liim- 
■ self; 
He cannot smell a rose but pricks his 

nose 
Against the thorn, and rails against 

the rose. 
Queen. I am the only rose of all the 

stock 
That never tliorn'd him ; Edward 

loves him, so 
Ye hate him. Harold always hated 

him. 
Why — how they fought when boys 

— and. Holy Mary ! 
How Harold used to beat him ! 

Harold. Why, boys will fight. 

Leofwin would often fight me, and I 

beat him. 
Even old Gurth would fight. I had 

much ado 
To hold mine own against old Gurtli. 

Old Gurth, 
We fought like great states for grave 

cause ; but Tostig — 
On a sudden — at a something — for a 

nothing — 
The boy would fist me hard, and wlien 

we fought 
I conquer'd, and he loved me none tlie 

less. 
Till thou wouldst get liiiu all apart, 

and tell him 



516 



HAROLD. 



That where he was but worsted, he 

was wrong'd. 
Ah ! thou hast taught the king to 

spoil him too ; 
Now the spoilt child sways both. Take 

heed, take heed ; 
Thou art the Queen ; ye are boy and 

girl no more : 
Side not with Tostig in any violence. 
Lest thou be sideways guilty of the 
violence. 
Queen. Come fall not foul on me. 

I leave thee, brother. 
Harold. Nay, my good sister — 
[Exeunt Queen, Harold, Gurth,o?K^ 
Leofwin. 
Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means ? 

[Pointing to the comet. 
Gamel. War, my dear lad}^ 

War, waste, plague, famine, all malig- 
nities. 
Aldwi/th. It means the fall of Tos- 
tig from his earldom. 
Gamel. That were too small a mat- 
ter for a comet ! 
Aldwyth. It means the lifting of the 

house of Alfgar. 
Gamel. Too small ! a comet would 

not show for that ! 
Aldwyth. Not small for thee, if thou 

canst compass it. 
Gamel. Thy love 1 
Aldwyth. As much as I can 

give thee, man ; 
This Tostig. is, or like to be, a tyrant ; 
Stir up thy people : oust him ! 

Gamel. And thy love ? 

Aldwyth. As much asthoucanst bear. 
Gamel. I can bear all. 

And not be giddy. 

Aldwyth. No more now: to-morrow. 

SCENE II. — In the G.\rden. The 
King's House near London. Sun- 
set. 

Edith. Mad for thy mate, passion- 
ate nightingale . . . 

I love thee for it — ay, but stay a mo- 
ment ; 

He can but stay a moment : he is go- 
ing. 

I fain would hear him coming ! . . . 
near me . . near, 

Somewhere — To draw him nearer 
with a charm 

Like thine to thine. 

( Sinyin;/. ) 

Love is come with a song and a smile, 
Welcome Love with a smile and a 

song : . 
Love can stay but a little while. 
Whj- cannot he stay 1 They call him 



Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong : 
Love will stay for a whole life long. 

Enter Harold. 

Harold. The nightingales at Hav- 

ering-in-tlie-bower 
Sang out their loves so loud, that Ed- 
ward's prayers 
Were deafen'd and he pray'd them 

dumb, and thus 
I dumb thee too, my wingless night- 
ingale ! [Kissing her. 
Edith. Thou art my music ! Would 

their wings were mine 
To follow thee to Flanders ! Must 

thou go ? 
Harold. Not must, but will. It is 

but for one moon. 
Edith. Leaving so many foes in 

Edward's hall 
To league against thy weal. The Lady 

Aldwyth 
Was here to-day, and when she touch'd 

on thee. 
She stammer'd in her hate ; I am sure 

she hates thee, 
Pants for thy blood. 

Harold. Well, I have given her 

cause — 
I fear no woman. 

Edith. Hate not one who felt 

Some pity for thy hater ! I am sure 
Her morning wanted sunlight, she so 

praised 
The convent and lone life — within 

the pale — 
Beyond the passion. Nay — she held 

with Edward, 
At least methought she held with holy 

Edward, 
That marriage was half sin. 

Harold. A lesson worth 

Finger and thumb — thus ( snaps his 

^fingers ) . And my answer to it — 
See here — an interwoven H and E ! 
Take thou this ring ; I will demand 

his ward 
From Edward when I come again. 

Ay, would she 1 
She to shut up my blossom in the dark ! 
Thou art my nun, thy cloister in mine 

arms. 
Edith {taking the ring). Yea, but 

Earl Tostig — 
Harold. That's a truer fear ! 

For if the North take fire, I should be 

back ; 
I shall be, soon enough. 

Edith. Ay, but last night 

An evil dream that ever came and 

went — 
Harold. A gnat that vext thy pil- 
low ! Had I been by, 
I would have spoil'd his horn. My 
sirl, what was it ? 



HAROLD. 



517 



Edith. Oh ! that thou wert not go- 
ing ! 

For so methought it was our marriage- 
morn, 

And wliile we stood together, a dead 
man 

Kose from behind the altar, tore away 

My marriage ring, and rent my bridal 
veil ; 

And then I turn'd, and saw the church 
all mi'd 

"With dead men upright from their 
graves, and all 

The dead men made at thee to murder 
thee. 

But thou didst back thyself against a 
pillar. 

And strike among them with thy bat- 
tle-axe — 

There, what a dream ! 

Harold. "Well, well — a dream — 

no more ! 
Edith. Did not Heaven speak to 

men in dreams of old ? 
Harold. Ay — well — of old. I 
tell thee what, my child ; 

Thou hast misread this merry dream 
of thine. 

Taken the rifted pillars of the wood 

For smooth stone columns of the sanc- 
tuary, 

The shadows of a hundred fat dead 
deer 

For dead men's ghosts. True, that the 
battle-axe 

Was out of place ; it should have been 
the bow. — 

Come, thou shalt dream no more such 
dreams ; I swear it. 

By mine own eyes — and these two 
sapphires — these 

Twin rubies, that are amulets against all 

The kisses of all kind of Momankind 

In Flanders, till the sea shall roll me 
back 

To tumble at thy feet. 

Edith. That would but shame me. 

Rather than make me vain. The sea 
may roll 

Sand, shingle, shore-weed, not the liv- 
ing rock 

"\Yhich guards the land. 

Harold. Except it be a soft one. 

And undereaten to the fall. Mine 
amulet . . . 

This last . . . upon thine eyelids, to 
shut in 

A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and 
thou shalt see 

My greyhounds fleeting like a beam 
of light. 

And hear my peregrine and her bells 
in heaven ; 

And other bells on earth, which yet 
are heaven's ; 

Guess what they be. 



Edith. He cannot guess who knows. 
Farewell, my king. 

Harold. Not yet, but then — my 
queen. \_Exeunt. 

Enter Aldwyth from the thicket. 

Aldwyth. The kiss that charms 

thine e^-elids into sleep, 
"Will hold mine waking. Hate him ? 

I could love him 
More, tenfold, than this fearful child 

can do ; 
Griffyth I hated: why not hate the foe 
Of England 1 Griffyth when I saw 

him flee. 
Chased deer-like up his mountains, all 

the blood 
That should have only pulsed for Grif- 
fyth, beat 
For his pursuer. I love him or think 

I love him. 
If he were King of England, I his queen, 
I might be sure of it. Nay, I do love 

him. — 
She must be cloister'd somehow, lest 

the king 
Should yield his ward to Harold's will. 

"\Vliat harm ? 
She hath but blood enough to live, not 

love. — 
"When Harold goes and Tostig, shall 

I play 
The craftier Tostig with him? fawn 

upon him 1 
Chime in with all ? " O thou more 

saint than king ! " 
And that were true enough. " O 

blessed relics ! " 
" O Holy Peter!" If he found me thus, 
Harold might hate me ; he is broad 

and honest, 
Breathing an easy gladness . . . not 

like Aldwyth . . . 
For which I strangely love him. 

Should not England 
Love Aldwyth, if she stays the feuds 

that part 
The sons uf Godwin from the sons of 

Alfgar 
By such a marrying ? Coui'age, noble 

Aldwyth ! 
Let all th}- people bless thee ! 

Our wild Tostig, 
Edward hath made him Earl : he 

would be king : — 
The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt 

the bone. — 
I trust he may do well, this Gamel, 

whom 
I play upon, that he may play the note 
"\Vhereat the dog shall howl and run, 

and Harold 
Hear the king's music, all alone with 

him. 
Pronounced his heir of England. 



518 



HAROLD. 



I see the goal and half the way to it. — 
Peace-lover is our Harold for the 

sake 
Of England's wholeness — so — to 

shake the North 
With earthquake and disruption — 

some division — 
Then fling mine own fair person in the 

A sacrifice to Harold, a peace-orfering, 
A scape-goat marriage — all the sins 

of both 
The houses on mine head — then a 

fair life 
And bless the Queen of England. 
Morcar (coming from the thicket). Art 
thou assured 
By this, that Harold loves but Edith ? 
Aldwi/th. Morcar! 

Why creep'st thou like a timorous 

beast of prey 
Out of the bush by night ? 

Morcar. 1 follow 'd thee. 

Aldwi/th. Follow my lead, and I 

will make thee earl. 
Morcar. What lead then ? 
Aldwyth. Thou shalt flash it secretly 
Among the good Northumbrian folk, 

that I — 
That Harold loves me — yea, and pres- 
ently 
That I and Harold are betroth'd — and 

last — 
Perchance that Harold wrongs me ; 

tho' I would not 
That it should come to that. 

i\forc(tr. I will both flash 

And thunder for thee. 

Aldtcijth. I said " secretly " ; 

It is the flash that murders, the poor 

thunder 
Never harm'd head. 

Morcar. But thunder may bring 
down 
That which the flash hath stricken. 

Aldic/jth. Down with Tostig ! 

That first of all. — And when doth 
Harold go ? 
Morcar. To-morrow — first to Bos- 
ham, then to Flanders. 
Aldwijth. Not to come back till 
Tostig shall have shown 
And redden'd with his people's blood 

the teeth 
That shall be broken by us — yea, and 

thou 
Chair'd in his place. Good-night, and 

dream tliyself 
Their chosen Earl. [^Exit Aldwyth. 
Morcar. Earl first, and after that 
Who knows I may not dream myself 
their king ! 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. — Seashoke. Ponthieu. 
Night. 

Harold and his Men, icrecked. 

Harold. Friends, in that last inhos- 
pitable plunge 

Our boat hath burst her ribs ; but ours 
are whole ; 

I have but bark'd my hands. 

Attendant. I dug mine into 

My old fast friend the shore, and cling- 
ing thus 

Felt the remorseless outdraught of the 
deep 

Haul like a great strong fellow at my 
legs. 

And then I rose and ran. The blast 
tliat came 

So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly — 

Put thou the comet and this blast to- 
gether — 
Harold. Put thou thyself and 
mother-wit together. 

Be not a fool ! 

{Enter Fishermen loith torches, Harold 
going up to one of them, Rolf.) 

Wicked sea-will-o'-the-wisp ! 
Wolf of the shore ! dog, with thy ly- 
ing lights 
Thou hast betray'd us on these rocks 
of thine ! 
Rolf. Ay, but thou liest as loud as 
the black herring-pond behind thee. 
We be fishermen ; I came to see after 
my nets. 

Harold. To drag us into them. 
Fishermen ? devils ! 
Who, while ye fish for men with your 

false fires. 
Let the great Devil fish for your own 
souls. 
Bolf. Nay then, we be liker the 
blessed Apostles ; theij were fishers of 
men, Father Jean says. 

Harold. I had liefer that the fish 
had swallowed me, 
Like Jonah, than have known there 

were such devils. 
What's to be done 1 

{^Tohis Men — goes apart with them. 
Fisherman. Rolf, what fish did 

swallow Jonah ? 
Rolf. A whale ! 

Fisherman. Then a whale to a whelk 
we have swallowed the King of Eng- 
land. I saw him over there. Look 
thee, Rolf, when I was down in the 
fever, she was down with the hunger, 
and thou didst stand by her and give 
her thy crabs, and set her up again, 
till now, by the patient Saints, she's 
as crabb'd as ever. 



HAROLD. 



519 



Rolf. And I'll give her my crabs 
again, when thou art down again. 

Fisherman. I thank thee, Eolf . Run 
thou to Count Guy ; he is hard at hand. 
Tell him what hath crept into our 
creel, and he will fee thee as freely as 
he will wrench this outlander's ransom 
out of him — and why not ? for what 
right had he to get himself wrecked 
on another man's land ? 

Holf. Thou art the human-hearted- 
est, Christian-charitiest of all crab- 
catchers. Share and sliare alike ! 

{Exit. 

Harold (to Fisherman). Fellow, 
dost thou catch crabs '? 

Fisherman. As few as I may in a 
wind, and less than I would in a calm. 
Ay! 

Harold. I have a mind that thou 
shalt catch no more. 

Fisherman. How ? 

Harold. I have a mind to brain thee 
with mine axe. 

Fisherman. Ay, do, do, andour great 
Count-crab will make his nippers meet 
in thine heart ; he'll sweat it out of 
thee, he'll sweat it out of thee. Look, 
he's here ! He'll speak for himself ! 
Hold thine own, if thou canst ! 

Enter Guy, Count of Ponthieu. 

Harold. Guy, Count of Ponthieu 1 
Ghi/. Harold, Earl of Wessex ! 
Harold. Thy villains with their 

lying lights have wreck'd us ! 
Guy. Art thou not Earl of Wessex 1 
Harold. In mine earldom 

A man may hang gold bracelets on a 

bush, 
And leave them for a year, and com- 
ing back 
Find them again. 

Gui/. Thou art a mighty man 

In thine own earldom ! 

Harold. Were such murderous liars 
In Wessex — if I caught them, they 

shoaild hang 
Cliff-gibbeted for sea-marks; our sea- 
mew 
Winging their only wail ! 

Gui/. Ay, but my men 

Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed 

of God ; — 
What hinders me to hold with mine 
own men ? 
Harold. The Christian manhood of 

the man who reigns ! 
Guy. Ay, rave thy worst, but in our 
oubliettes 
Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale 
him hence ! 

[To one of his Attendants. 
Fly thou to William; tell him we have 
Harold. 



SCENE II. — Bayeux. Palace. 

Count William and William 
Malet. 

William. We hold our Saxon wood- 
cock in the springe, 
But he begins to flutter. As I think 
He was thine host in England when I 

went 
To visit Edward. 

Malet. Yea, and there, my lord. 

To make allowance for their rougher 

fashions, 
I found him all a noble host should be. 
William. Thou art his friend : thou 

know'st my claim on England 
Thro' Edward's promise : we have him 

in the toils. 
And it were well, if thou shouldst let 

him feel. 
How dense a fold of danger nets him 

round, 
So that he bristle himself against my 

will. 
Malet. What would I do, my lord, 

if I were you ? 
William. What wouldst thou do ? 
Malet. My lord, he is thy guest. 
William. Nay, by the si)lendor 

of God, no guest of mine. 
He came not to see me, had past me 

by 
To hunt and hawk elsewhere, save for 

the fate 
Which hunted him when that un- 

Saxon blast, 
And bolts of thunder moulded in high 

heaven 
To serve the Norman purpose, drave 

and crack'd 
His boat on Ponthieu beach ; where 

our friend Guy 
Had wrung his ransom from him by 

the rack. 
But that I stept between and jjur- 

chased him. 
Translating his captivity from Guy 
To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where 

he sits 
My ransom'd prisoner. 

Malet. Well, if not with gold 

With golden deeds and iron strokes 

that brought 
Thy war with Brittany to a goodlier 

close 
Than else had been, he paid his ran- 
som back. 
William. So that henceforth they 

are not like to league 
With Harold against me. 

Malet. A marvel, how 

He from the liquid sands of Coesnon 
Haled thy shore-swallow'd, armor'd 

Normans up 



520 



HAROLD. 



To fight for thee again! 

Williatn. Perchance against 

Their saver, save thou save him from 

himself. 
Malet. But I should let him home 

again, my lord. 
William. Simple! let fly the bird 

within the hand, 
To catch the bird again within the 

bush! 
No. 
Smooth thou my way, before he clash 

with me ; 
I want his voice in England for the 

crown, 
I want thy voice with him to bring him 

round ; 
And being brave he must be subtly 

cow'd, 
And being truthful wrought upon to 

swear 
Vows that he dare not break. Eng- 
land our own 
Thro' Harold's help, he shall be my 

dear friend 
As well as thine, and thou thyself 

shalt have 
Large lordship there of lands and ter- 
ritory. 
Malet. 1 knew thy purpose ; he and 

Wulfnoth never 
Have met, except in public ; shall 

they meet 
In private "? I have often talk'd with 

Wulfnoth, 
And stuff'd the boy with fears that 

these may act 
On Harold when they meet. 

William. Then let them meet ! 

Malet. I can but love this noble, 

honest Harold. 
William. Love him ! why not 1 

thine is a loving office, 
I have commission'd thee to save the 

man : 
Help the good ship, showing the 

sunken rock. 
Or he is wreckt for ever. 

Enter AVilliam Rufus. 

William Rufus. Father. 

William. Well, boy. 

William Rufus. They have taken 

away the toy thou gavest me, 
The Norman knight. 

William. Why, boy? 

William Rufus. Because I broke 
The horse's leg — it Avas mine own to 

break ; 
I like to have my toys, and break them 

too. 
William. Well, thou shalt have 

another Norman knight ! 
William Rufus. And may I break 

his legs 1 



William. Yea, — get thee gone ! 
William Rufus. I'll tell them I have 
liad my way with thee. [Exit. 
Malet. I never knew thee check thy 
will for ought 
Save for the i>rattling of thy littleones. 
William. Who shall be kings of 
England. I am heir 
Of England by the i^romise of her king. 
Malet. But there the great As- 
sembly choose their king. 
The choice of England is the voice of 
England. 
William. I will be king of England 
by the laws. 
The choice, and voice of England. 
Malet. Can that be 1 

William. The voice of any people 
is the sword 
That guards them, or the sword that 

beats them down. 
Here comes the would-be what I will 

be . . . kinglike . . . 
Tho' scarce at ease ; for, save our 

meshes break. 
More kinglike he than like to jjrove a 
king. 

{Enter Harold, musing, ivith his eyes 
on the ground.) 

He sees me not — and yet he dreams 

of me. 
Earl, Avilt thou fiy my falcons this 

fair day ? 
They are of the best, strong-wing'd 

against the wind. 
Harold {looking up suddenly, having 

caught but the last ivord). Which 

way does it blow ? 
William. Blowing for England, 

ha? 
Not yet. Thou hast not learnt thy 

quarters here. 
The winds so cross and jostle among 

these vtowers. 
Harold. Count of the Normans, 

thou hast ransom'd us, 
Maintain'd,and entertain'd us royally ! 
William. And thou for us hast 

fought as loyally. 
Which binds us friendship-fast for 

ever ! 
Harold. Good ! 

But lest we turn the scale of courtesy 
By too much pressure on it, I would 

fain, 
Since thou has promised Wulfnoth 

home with us, 
Be home again with Wulfnoth. 

William. Stay — as yet 

Thou hast but seen how Norman 

liands can strike, 
But walk'd our Norman field, scarce 

touch'd or tasted 
The splendors of our Court. 



HAROLD. 



521 



Harold. I am in no mood : 

I should be as the shadow of a cloud 
Crossing your light. 

William. Nay, rest a week or two, 
And we will fill thee full of Norman 

sun. 
And send thee back among thine 

island mists 
With laughter. 

Harold. Count, I thank thee, but 

had rather 
Breathe the free wind from off our 

Saxon downs, 
Tho' cliarged with all the wet of all 

the west. 
William. Why if thou wilt, so let it 

be — thou shalt. 
That were a graceless hospitality 
To chain the free guest to the banquet- 
board ; 
To-morrow we will ride with thee to 

Harfleur, 
And see tliee shipt, and pray in thy 

behalf 
For happier homeward winds than 

that which crack'd 
Thy bark at Ponthieu, — yet to us, in 

faith, 
A happy one — whereby we came to 

know 
Thy valor and thy value, noble earl. 
Ay, and perchance a happy one for 

thee, 
Provided — I will go with thee to- 
morrow — 
Nay — but there be conditions, easy 

ones, 
So thou, fair friend, will take them 

easily. 

Enter Page. 

Page. My lord, there is a post from 

over seas 
With news for thee. \_ETit Page. 

William. Come, Malet, let us hear ! 
[^Exeunt Count William and Malet. 
Harold. Conditions ? What condi- 
tions 1 pay him back 
His ransom ? " easy " — that were 

easy — way — 
No money-lover he ! What said the 

King "? 
" I pray you do not go to Normandy." 
And fate liath blown me hither, bound 

me too 
With bitter obligation to the Count — 
Have I not fought it out 1 What did 

he mean ] 
There lodged a gleaming grimness in 

his eyes, 
Gave his shorn smile the lie. The 

walls oppress me, 
And yon huge keep that hinders half 

the heaven. 
Free air ! free field ! 



[^Moves to go out. A Man-at-arms 

follows him. 
Harold (to the Man-at-arnis). I need 
thee not. Why dost thou fol- 
low me ? 
Man-at-arms. I have the Count's 

commands to follow thee. 
Harold. What then ? Am I in dan- 
ger in this court ? 
Man-at-arms. I cannot tell. I have 

the Count's commands. 
Harold. Stand out of earshot then, 
and keep me still 
In eyeshot. 

Man-at-arms. Yea, Lord Harold. 

[ Withdraws. 

Harold. And arm'd men 

Ever keep watch beside my chamber 

door. 
And if I walk within the lonely wood, 
There is an arm'd man ever glides be- 
hind! 

(Enter Malet.) 

Why am I follow'd, haunted, harass'd, 

watch'd ? 
See yonder ! 

[Pointing to the ?ilan-at-arms. 
Malet. 'Tis the good Count's care 
for thee ! 
The Normans love thee not, nor thou 

the Normans, 
Or — so they deem. 

Harold. But wherefore is the wind, 
Which way soever the vane-arrow 

swing. 
Not ever fair for England 1 Why but 

now 
He said (thou heardst him) that I 

must not hence 
Save on conditions. 

Malet. So in truth lie said. 

Harold. Malet, tliy mother was an 
Englishwoman ; 
There somewhere beats an English 
pulse in thee ! 
Malet. Well — for my mother's 
sake I love your England, 
But for my father I love Normandy. 
Harold. Speak for thy mother's 

sake, and tell me true. 
Malet. Then for my mother's sake, 
and England's sake 
That suffers in the daily want of 

thee. 
Obey the Count's conditions, my good 
friend. 
Harold. How, Malet, if they be not 

honorable ! 
Malet. Seem to obey them. 
Harold. Better die than lie ! 

Malet. Choose therefore whether 
thou wilt have thy conscience 
White as a maiden's hand, or whether 
England 



522 



HAROLD. 



Be shatter'd into fragments. 
Harold. News from England ? 
Malet. Morcar and Edwin have 

stirr'd up the Thanes 
Against thy brother Tostig's govern- 
ance ; 
And all the North of Humber is one 

storm. 
Harold. I should be there, Malet, I 

should be there ! 
Makt. And Tostig in his own hall 

on suspicion 
Hath massacred the Thane that was 

his guest, 
Gamel, the son of Orm : and there be 

more 
As villanously slain. 

Harold. The wolf ! the beast ! 

Ill news for guests, ha, Malet ! More '? 

What more ? 
What do they say "? did Edward know 

of this ? 
Malet. They say, his wife was know- 
ing and abetting. 
Harold. They say, his wife! — To 

marry and have no husband 
Makes the wife fool. My God, I 

should be there. 
I'll hack my way to the sea. 

Malet. Thou canst not, Harold ; 

Our Duke is all between thee and the 

sea. 
Our Duke is all about thee like a God ; 
All passes block'd. Obey him, speak 

him fair. 
For he is only debonair to those 
That follow where he leads, but stark 

as death 
To those that cross him. — Look thou, 

here is Wulfnoth ! 
I leave thee to thy talk with him 

alone ; 
How wan, poor lad ! how sick and sad 

for home ! \_Exit Malet. 

Harold {mutter incj). Go not to Nor- 
mandy — go not to Normandy ! 

{Enter Wulfnoth.) 

Poor brother ! still a hostage ! 

Wulfnoth. Yea, and I 

Shall see the dewy kiss of dawn no 

more 
Make blush the maiden-white of our 

tall cliffs, 
Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself 

and hover 
Above the windy ripple, and fill the sky 
With free sea-laughter — never — 

save indeed 
Thou canst make yield this iron- 

mooded Duke 
To let me go. . 

Harold. Why, brother, so he will ; 
But on conditions. Canst thou guess 

at them 1 



Wulfnoth. Draw nearer, — I was in 
the corridor, 
I saw him coming with his brother 

Odo . 
The Bayeux bishop, and I hid myself. 
Harold. They did tiiee wrong who 
made thee hostage ; thou 
Wast ever fearful. 

Wulfnoth. And bespoke^ I 

heard him — 
" This Harold is not of the royal blood. 
Can have no right to the crown," and 

Odo said, 
"Thine is the right, for thine the 

might ; he is here, 
And yonder is thy keep." 

Harold. No, Wulfnoth, no. 

Wulfnoth. And William laugh'd and 
swore that might was right, 
Far as he knew in this poor world of 

ours — 
" Marry, the Saints must go along vv-ith 

us. 
And, brother, we will find a way," said . 

he — 
Yea, jita., he would be king of England. 
Harold. Never ! 

Wtdfnoth. Yea, but thou must not 

this way answer him: 
Harold. Is it not better still to 

speak the truth ? 
Wulfnoth. Not here, or thou wilt 
never hence nor I : 
For in the racing toward this golden 

goal 
He turns not right or left, but tram- 
ples flat 
Whatever thwarts him ; hast thou 

never heard 
His savagery at Alencon, — the town 
Hung out raw hides along their walls, 

and cried 
" Work for the tanner." 

Harold. That had anger'd me 

Had I been William. 

Wulfnoth. Nay, but he had prison- 
ers. 
He tore their eyes out, sliced their 

hands away. 
And flung them streaming o'er the 

battlements 
Upon the heads of those who walk'd 

within — 
O speak him fair, Harold, for thine 
own sake. 
Harold. Your Welshman says, 
"The Truth against the 
World," 
Much more the truth against myself. 
Wulfnoth. Thyself ? 

But for my sake, oh brother ! oh ! for 
my sake ! 
Harold. Poor Wulfnoth! do they 

not entreat thee well 1 
Wulfnoth. I see the blackness of 
my dungeon loom 



HAROLD. 



523 



Across their lamps of revel, and be- 
yond 

The merriest murmurs of their ban- 
quet clank 

The shackles that will bind me to the 
wall. 
Harold. Too fearful still ! 
Widfnuth. Oh no, no — speak 

him fair ! 

Call it to temporize ; and not to lie; 

Harold, I do not counsel thee to lie. 

The man that hath to foil a murder- 
ous aim 

May, surely, play with words. 

Harold. Words are the man. 

Not ev'n for thy sake, brother, would 
Hie. 
Wulfnolh. Then for thine Edith ? 
Harold. There thou prick'st me 

deep. 
Widfnoth. And for our Mother 

England ? 
Harold. Deeper still. 

Widfnoth. And deeper still the 
deep-down oubliette, 

Down thirty feet below the smiling 
day — 

In blackness — dogs' food thrown upon 
thy head. 

And over thee the suns arise and 
set, 

And the lark sings, the sweet stars 
come and go, 

And men are at their markets, in their 
fields. 

And woo their loves and have forgot- 
ten thee ; 

And thou art upright in thy living 
grave, 

Where there is barely room to shift 
thy side. 

And all thine England hath forgotten 
thee ; 

And he our lazy-pious Norman King, 

With all his Normans round him once 
again, 

Counts his old beads, and hath for- 
gotten thee. 
Harold. Thou art of my blood, and 
so methinks, my boy. 

Thy fears infect me beyond reason. 
Peace ! 
Wulfnoth. And then our fiery Tos- 
tig, while thy hands 

Are palsied here, if his Northumbri- 
ans rise 

And hurl him from them, — I have 
heard the Normans 

Count upon this confusion — may he 
not make 

A league with William, so to bring 
him back ? 
Harold. That lies within the 

shadow of the chance. 
Wulfnoth. And like a river in flood 
thro' a burst dam 



Descends the ruthless Norman — our 

good King 
Kneels mumbling some old bone — 

our helpless folk 
Are wasli'd away, wailing, in their 
own blood — 
Harold. Wailing ! not warring ? 
Boy, thou hast forgotten 
That thou art English. 

Widfnoth. Then our modest wo- 
men — 
I know the Norman license — thine 
own Edith — 
Harold. No more ! I will not hear 

thee — William comes. 
Wulfnoth. I dare not well be seen 
in talk with thee. 
Make thou not mention that I spake 
with tliee. 
\_Moves atcai/ to the back of the stage. 

Enter William, Malet, and Officer. 

Officer. We have the man that 

rail'd against thy' birth. 
William. Tear out his tongue. 
Officer. He shall not rail again. 

He said that he should see confusion 

fall 
On thee and on thine house. 

William. Tear out his eyes, 

And plunge him into prison. 

Officer. It shall be done. 

[E.rit Officer. 

William. Look not amazed, fair 

earl ! Better leave undone 

Than do by halves — tongueless and 

eyeless, prison'd — 

Harold. Better methinks have 

slain tlie man at once ! 
William. We have respect for 
man's immortal soul, 
We seldom take man's life, except in 

war; 
It frights the traitor more to maim 
and blind. 
Harold. In mine own land I should 
have scorn'd the man, 
Or lash'd his rascal back, and let him 
go. 
William. And let him go ? To 
slander thee again ! 
Yet in thine own land in thy father's 

day 
They blinded my young kinsman, 

Alfred — ay. 
Some said it was thy father's deed. 
Harold. They lied. 

William . But thou and he — whom 
at thy word, for thou 
Art known a speaker of the truth, I 

free 
From this foul charge — 

Harold. Nay, nay, he freed himself 
By oath and compurgation from the 
charge. 



524 



HAROLD. 



The king, the lords, the people clear'd 
him of it. 
William. But thou and he drove 
our good Normans out 
From England, and this rankles in 

us yet. 
Archbishop Robert hardly scaped 
with life. 
Harold. Archbishop Robert ! Rob- 
ert the Archbishoi) ! 
Robert of Jumie'ges, he that — 

Malet. Quiiet! quiet! 

Harold. Count ! if there sat with- 
in the Norman chair 
A ruler all for England — one who 

tiird 
All offices, all bishopricks with Eng- 
lish— 
We could not move from Dover to 

the Humber 
Saving thro' Norman bishopricks — I 

say 
Ye would applaud that Norman who 

should drive 
The stranger to the fiends ! 

William. Why, that is reason ! 

Warrior thou art, and mighty wise 

withal ! 
Ay, ay, but many among our Norman 

lords 
Hate thee for this, and ijress upon 

me — saying 
God and the sea have given thee to 

our hands — 
To plunge thee into life-long prison 

here : — 
Yet I hold out against them, as I 

may. 
Yea — would hold out, yea, tho' they 

should revolt — 
For thou hast done the battle in my 

cause ; 
I am thy fastest friend in Normandy. 
Harold. I am doubly bound to thee 

... if this be so. 
William. And I would bind thee 
more, and would myself 
Be bounden to thee more. 

Harold. Then let me hence 

With Wulfnoth to King Edward. 

William. So we will. 

We hear he hath not long to live. 
Harold. It may be. 

William. Why then the heir of 

England, who is he ? 
Harold. The Atheling is nearest 

to the throne. 
William. But sickly, slight, half- 
witted and a child, 
Will England have Mm king ? 

Harold. It may be, no. 

William. And hath King Edward 

not pronounced his heir ? 
Harold. Not that I know. 
William. When he was here 

in Normandy, 



He loved us and we him, because we 

found him 
A Norman of the Normans. 

Harold. So did we. 

William. A gentle, gracious, pure 
and saintly man ! 
And grateful to the hand that shielded 

him. 
He promised that if ever he were 

king 
In England, he would give his kingly 

voice 
To me as his successor. Knowest 
tliou this ■? 
Harold. I learn it now. 
William. Thou knowest I am 

his cousin. 
And that my wife descends from 
Alfred ? 
Harold. Ay. 

William. Who hath a better claim 
then to the crown 
So that ye will not crown the Athel- 
ing? 
Harold. None that I know ... if 
that but hung upon 
King Edward's will. 

William. Wilt thou uphold my 

claim 1 

Malet (as/f/e ^0 Harold). Be careful 

of thine answer, my good friend. 

Wulfnoth (aside to Harold). Oh! 

Harold, for my sake and for 

thine own ! 

Harold. Ay ... if the king have 

not revoked his promise. 
William. But hath he done it 

then ? 
Harold. Not that I know. 

William. Good, good, and thou 

wilt help me to the crown ? 
Harold. Ay ... if the Witan will 

consent to this. 
William. Tliou art the mightiest 
voice in England, man, 
Thy voice will lead the Witan — 
shall I have it ? 
Widfnoth (aside to Harold). Oh! 
Harold, if thou love thine Edith, 
ay. 
Harold. Ay, if — 
Malet (aside to Harold). Thine 
" if s " will sear thine eyes out 
— ay. 
Wdliam. I ask thee, wilt thou help 
me to the crown "? 
And I will make thee my great Earl 

of Earls, 
Foremost in England and in Nor- 
mandy ; 
Thou shalt be verily king — all but 

the name — 
For I shall most sojourn in Nor- 
mandy ; 
And thou be my vice-king in Eng- 
land. Speak. 



HAROLD. 



525 



Wiilfnoth {aside to Harold). Ay, 
brother — for the sake of Eng- 
land — ay. 
Harold. My lord — 
Malet (aside to Harold). Take heed 

now. 
Harold. Ay. 
William. I am content, 

For thou art truthful, and thy word 
thy bond. 

To-morrow will we ride with thee to 
Harfleur. [Exit William. 

Malet. Harold, I am thy friend, 
one life ,with thee. 

And even as I should bless thee saving 
mine, 

I thank thee now for having saved 
thyself. \_Exit Malet. 

Harold. For having lost myself 
to save myself. 

Said " ay " when I meant " no," lied 
like a lad 

That dreads tiie pendent scourge, 
said " ay " for " no " ! 

Ay ! No ! — he hath not bound me by 
an oath — 

Is " ay " an oath ? is " ay " strong as 
an oath ? 

Or is it the same sin to break my word 

As break mine oath ? He call'd my 
word my bond ! 

He is a liar who knows I am a liar, 

And makes me believe that he believes 
my word — 

The crime be on his head — not 
bounden — no. 
\_Suddenlii doors areflwu) open, dis- 
coverirxj in an inner hall Count 
AViLLiAM in Ills state robes, seated 
upon /lis throne, between two 
Bishops, Odo of Bayeux being 
one: in the centre of the hall an 
ark covered icith cloth of gold; 
and on either side of it the Nor- 
man barons. 

Enter a Jailor before William's throne. 
William {to Jailor). Knave, hast 

let thy prisoner scape 1 
Jailor. Sir Count, 

He had but one foot, he must have 

hopt away, • 

Yea, some familiar spirit must have 
help'd him. 
Willia m. Woe knave to thy familiar 
and to thee ! 
Give me thy keys. [The >/ fall clashing. 
Nay let them lie. Stand there and 
wait my will. 

\_The Jailor stands aside. 
William {to Harold). Hast thou 
such trustless jailors in thy 
North ? 
Harold. We have few prisoners in 
mine earldom there, 
So less chance for false keepers. 



William. We have heard 

Of thy just, mild, and equal gover- 
nance ; 
Honor to thee ! thou art perfect in all 

honor ! 
Thy naked word thy bond ! confirm it 

now 
Before our gather'd Norman baronage, 
For they will not believe me — as I 
believe. 
[Descends from his throne and 
stands bg the ark. 
Let all men here bear witness of our 
bond ! 
[Beckons to Harold, ivho advances. 

Enter Malet behind him. 
Lay thou thy hand upon this golden 

pall ! 
Behold the jewel of St. Pancratius 
Woven into the gold. Swear thou on 
this ! 
Harold. What should I swear ? 

Why should I swear on this ? 
William {savagelg). Swear thou to 
help me to the crown of Eng- 
land. 
Malet (whispering Harold). My 
friend, thou hast gone too far 
to palter now. 
Wulfnoth (whispering Harold). 
Swear thou to-day, to-morrow 
is thine own. 
Harold. I swear to help thee to the 
crown of England . . . 
According as King Edward promises. 
William. Thou must swear abso- 
lutely, noble Earl. 
Malet (whispering). Delay is death 

to thee, ruin to England. 
Wulfnoth (ichispering). Swear, dear- 
est brother, I beseech thee, 
swear ! 
Harold (putting his hand on thejeivel). 
I swear to help thee to the 
crown of England. 
William. Thanks'^ truthful Earl; I 
did not doubt thy word, 
But that my barons might believe thy 

word. 
And that the Holy Saints of Normandy 
When thou art home in England, with 

thine own. 
Might strengthen thee in keeping of 

thy word, 
I made thee swear. — Show him by 
whom he hath sworn. 
[The two Bishops advance, and 
raise the cloth of gold. The bodies 
and bones of Saints are seen lying 
in the oj-k. 
The holy bones of all the Canonized 
From all the holiest shrines in Nor- 
mandy ! 
Harold. Horrible! [They let the 
cloth fall again. 



526 



HAROLD. 



William. Ay, for thou hast sworn 

an oath 
Which, if not kept, would make the 

hard earth rive 
To the very Devil's horns, the bright 

sky cleave 
To the very feet of God, and send her 

hosts 
Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of 

plague 
Thro' all your cities, blast your in- 
fants, dash 
The torch of war among your standing 

corn, 
Dabble your hearths with your own 

blood. — Enough ! 
Thou wilt not break it ! I, the Coimt 

— the King — 

Thy friend — am grateful for thine 

honest oath. 
Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, 

now, 
But softly as a bridegroom to his 

own. 
For I shall rule according to your 

laws, 
And make your ever-jarring Earldoms 

move 
To music and in order — Angle, Jute, 
Dane, Saxon, Norman, help to build a 

throne 
Out-towering hers of France . . . The 

wind is fair 
For England now . . . To-night we 

will be merry. 
To-morrow will I ride with thee to 

Harfleur. 
{^Exeunt William and all the Nor- 
man barons, etc. 
Harold. To-night we will be merry 

— and to-morrow — 
Juggler and bastard — bastard — he 

hates that most — 
AVilliam tlie tanner's bastard ! Would 
he heard me ! 

God, that 1 were in some wide, 

waste field 
With nothing but my battle-axe and 

him 
To spatter his brains ! Why let earth 

rive, gulf in 
These cursed Normans — yea and 

mine own self. 
Cleave, heaven, and send thy saints 

that I may say 
Ev'n to their faces, " If ye side with 

William 
Ye are not noble." How their pointed 

fingers 
Glared at me ! Am I Harold, Harold, 

son 
Of our great Godwin ? Lo ! I touch 

mine arjns, 
My limbs — they are not mine — they 

are a liar's — 

1 mean to be a liar — I am not bound — 



Stigand shall give me absolution for 

it — 
Did the chest move ? did it move ? 

I am utter craven ! 
O Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou 

liast betray'd me ! 
Wulfnoth. Forgive me, brother, I 

will live here and die. 

Enter Page. 

Page. My lord ! the Duke awaits 

thee at the banquet. 
Harold. Wliere thejf eat dead men's 

flesh, and drink their blood. 
Page. My lord — 
Harold. I know your Norman 

cookery is so spiced. 
It masks all this. 

Page. My lord ! thou art white 

as death. 
Harold. With looking on the dead. 

Am I so white ? 
Thy Duke will seem the darker. 

Hence, I follow. lExeunt. 



SCENE I. 



ACT III. 

-The King's Palace. 
London. 



King Edavaed dijing on a conch, and 
bg him standing the Queen, Harold, 
Archbishop Stigand, Gurth, 
Leofvvin, Archbishop Aldred, 
Aldwytii, and Edith. 

Stigand. Sleeping or dying there ? 

If this be death. 
Then our great Council wait to crown 

thee King — 
Come hither, I have a power ; 

[To Harold. 
They call me near, for I am close to 

thee 
And England — I, old shrivell'd 

Stigand, I, 
Dry as an old wood-fungus on a dead 

tree, 
I have a power ! 

SeeJiere this little key about my neck ! 
There lies a treasure buried down in 

Ely: 
If e'er the Norman grow too hard for 

thee. 
Ask me for this at thy most need, 

son Harold, 
At thy most need — not sooner. 

Harold. So I will. 

Stigand. Red gold — a hundred 

purses — yea, and more ! 
If thou canst make a wholesome use 

of these 
To chink against the Norman, I do 

believe 



HAROLD. 



527 



My old crook'd spine would bud out 
two young wings 

To fly to heaven straight with. 

Harold. Thank thee, father! 

Thou art English, Edward too is Eng- 
lish now, 

He hath clean repented of his Nor- 
manism. 
Stigand. Ay, as the libertine re- 
pents who cannot 

Make done undone, when thro' his 
dying sense 

Shrills " lost thro' thee." ~T^hey have 
built their castles here ; 

Our priories are Norman ; the Norman 
adder 

Hath bitten us ; we are poison'd : our 
dear England 

Is demi-Norman. He ! — 

\_Pointin(j to King Edward, sleeping. 
Harold. I would I were 

As holy and as passionless as he ! 

That I might rest as calmly ! Look 
at him — 

The rosy face, and long down-silver- 
ing beard. 

The brows unwrinkled as a summer 
mere. — 
Stir/and. A summer mere with sud- 
den vvreckful gusts 

From a side-gorge. Passionless ? How 
he flamed 

When Tostig's anger'd earldom flung 
him, nay. 

He fain had calcined all Northumbria 

To one black ash, but that thy jjatriot 
passion 

Siding with our great Council against 
Tostig, 

Outpassion'd his ! Holy ? ay, ay, for- 
sooth, 

A conscience for his own soul, not his 
realm ; 

A twilight conscience lighted thro' a 
chink ; 

Thine by the sun ; nay, by some sun 
to be. 

When all the world hath learnt to 
speak the truth. 

And lying were self-murder by that 
state 

Which was the exception. 

Harold. That sun may God speed ! 
Stigand. Come, Harold, shake the 

cloud off ! 
Harold. Can I, father ? 

Our Tostig parted cursing me and 
England ; 

Our sister hates us for his banish- 
ment ; 

He hath gone to kindle Norway against 
England, 

And Widfnoth is alone in Normandy. 

For when I rode with William down 
to Harfleur, 



" Wulfnoth is sick," he said ; " he 

cannot follow ; " 
Then with that friendly-fiendly smile 

of his, 
" We have learnt to love him, let him 

a little longer 
Eemain a hostage for the loyalty 
Of Godwin's house." As far as 

touches Wulfnoth 
I that so prized plain word and naked 

truth 
Have sinn'd against it — all in vain. 

Leofwin. Good brother. 

By all the truths that ever priest hath 

preach'd, 
Of all the lies that ever men have 

lied, 
Thine is the pardonal)lest. 

Harold. IVIay l)e .'<o ! 

I think it so, I think I am a fool 
To think it can be otherwise than so. 
Stigand. Tut, tut, I have absolved 

thee : dost thou scorn me. 
Because I had my Canterbury pallium 
From one whom they disj>oped 1 
Harold. No, Stigand, no ! 

Stigand. Is naked truth actable in 

true life 1 
I have heard a saying of thy father 

Godwin, 
That, were a man of state nakedly 

true. 
Men would but take him for the 

craftier liar. 
Leofwin. Be men less delicate than 
■ the Devil himself 'i 
I thought that naked Truth would 

shame the Devil 
The Devil is so modest. 

Giirth. He never said it! 

Leofwin. Be thou not stupid-honest, 

brother Gurth ! 
Harold. Better to be a liar's dog, 

and hold 
My master honest, than believe that 

lying 
And ruling men are fatal twins that 

cannot 
Move one without the other. Ed- 
ward wakes ! — 
Dazed — he hath seen a vision. 

Edward. The green tree i 

Then a great Angel past along the 

highest 
Crying " the doom of England," and 

at once 
He stood beside me, in his grasp a 

sword 
Of lightnings, wherewithal he cleft 

the tree 
From off the bearing trunk, and 

hurl'd it from him 
Three fields away, and then he dash'd 

and drencli'd, 
He dyed, he soak'd the trunk with 

human blood. 



528 



HAROLD. 



And brought the sunder'd tree again, 
and set it 

Straight on the trunk, that thus bap- 
tized in blood 

Grew ever high and higher, beyond 
my seeing, 

And shot out sidelong boughs across 
the deep 

That dropt themselves, and rooted in 
far isles 

Beyond my seeing: and the great 
Angel rose 

And past again along the highest cry- 
ing 

"The doom of England!" — Tostig, 
raise my head ! 

[Falls back senseless. 
Harold {raising him). Let Harold 

serve for Tostig ! 
Queen. Harold served 

Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tos- 
tig! 

Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid 
it low ! 

The sickness of our saintly king, for 
whom 

My prayers go up as fast as my tears 
fall, 

I well believe, hath mainly drawn it- 
self 

From lack of Tostig — thou hast ban- 
ish'd him. 
Harold. Nay — but the council, and 

the king himself. 
Queen. Thou hatest him, hatest 

him. 
Harold (coldly). Ay — Stigand, 

unriddle 

This vision, canst thou "? 

Stigand. Dotage ! 

Edward {starting up). It is finish'd. 

I have built the Lord a house — the 
Lord hath dwelt 

In darkness. I have built the Lord a 
house — 

Palms, flowers, pomegranates, golden 
cherubim 

"With twenty-cubit wings from wall to 
wall — 

I have built the Lord a house — sing, 
Asaph ! clash 

The cymbal, Heman ! blow the trum- 
pet, priest ! 

Fall, cloud, and fill the house — lo I 
my two pillars, 

Jachin and Boaz ! — 

[Seeing Harold and Gurth. 
Harold, Gurth, — where am I ? 

Where is the charter of our Westmin- 
ster? 
Stigand. It lies beside thee, king, 

upon thy bed. 
Edward. Sign, sign at once — take, 
sign it, Stigand, Aldred ! 

Sign it, my good son Harold, Gurth, 
and Leofwin, 



Sign it, my queen ! 

All. We have sign'd it. 

Edivard. It is finish'd ! 

The kingliest Abbey in all Christian' 

lands, 
The lordliest, loftiest minster ever 

built 
To Holy Peter in our English isle ! 
Let me be buried there, and all our 

kings, 
And all our just and wise and holy 

men 
That shall be born hereafter. It is 

finish'd ! 
Hast thou had absolution for thine 
oath ? \_To Harold. 

Harold. Stigand hath given me 

absolution for it. 
Edward. Stigand is not canonical 
enough 
To save thee from the wrath of Nor- 
man Saints. 
Stigand. Norman enough ! Be 
there no Saints of England 
To help us from their brethrenyonder? 
Edward. Prelate, 

The Saints are one, but those of Nor- 

manland 

Are mightier than our own. Ask it of 

Aldred. [To Harold. 

Aldred. It shall be granted him, 

my king ; for he 

Who vows a vow to strangle his own 

mother 
Is guiltier keeping this, than breaking 
it. 
Edward. O friends, I shall not over- 
live tlie day. 
Stigand. Why then the throne is 
empty. Who inherits ? 
For tho' we be not bound by the king's 

voice 
In making of a king, yet the king's 

voice 
Is much toward his making. Who 

inherits ? 
Edgar the Atheling 1 

Edward. No, no, but Harold. 

I love him : he hath served me : none 

but he 
Can rule all England. Yet the curse 

is on him 
For swearing falsely by those blessed 

bones; 
He did not mean to keep his vow. 

Harold. Not mean 

To make our England Norman. 

Edward. There spake Godwin, 

Who liated all the Normans ; but their 

Saints 
Have heard thee, Harold. 

Edith. Oh ! my lord, my king ! 

He knew not whom he sware by. 

Edward. Yea, I know 

He knew not, but those heavenly ears 
have heard. 



HAROLD. 



529 



Their curse is on him ; wilt thou bring 

another, 
Edith, upon liis head ? 

Edith. No, no, not I. 

Edward. Why then, thou must not 

wed him. 
Harold. Wherefore, wherefore ? 
Edward. O son, when thou didst 

tell me of thine oath, 
I sorrow'd for my random promise 

given 
To yon fox-lion. I did not dream 

tlien 
I should be king. — My son, the Saints 

are virgins ; 
They love the white rose of virginity. 
The cold, white lily blowing in her 

cell: 
I have been myself a virgin ; and I 

sware 
To consecrate my virgin here to 

heaven — 
The silent, cloister'd, solitary life, 
A life of life-long prayer against the 

curse 
That lies on thee and England. 

Harold. No, no, no. 

Edward. Treble denial of the 

tongue of flesh. 
Like Peter's when he fell, and thou 

wilt have 
To wail for it like Peter. my son ! 
Are all oaths to be broken then, all 

promises 
Made in our agony for help from 

heaven ? 
Son, there is one who loves thee : 

and a wife. 
What matters who, so she be service- 
able 
In all obedience, as mine own hath 

been: 
God bless thee, wedded daughter. 
[Laijing his hand on the Queen's head. 
Queen. Bless thou too 

That brother whom I love beyond the 

rest, 
My banish'd Tostig. 

Edward. All the sweet Saints 

bless him ! 
Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he 

comes ! 
And let him pass unscathed ; he loves 

me, Harold ! 
Be kindly to the Normans left among 

us. 
Who follow'd me for love ! and dear 

son, swear 
When thou art king, to see my solemn 

vow 
Accomplish'd. 

Harold. Nay, dear lord, for I have 

sworn 
Not to swear falsely twice. 

Edward. Thou wilt not swear ? 

Harold. I cannot. 



Edward. Then on thee remains 

the curse, 
Harold, if thou embrace her : and on 

thee, 
Edith, if thou abide it, — 

[77(6 King swoons ; 'E&\t\\ falls and 
kneels by the couch. 
Stigand. He hath swoon'd ! 

Death ? . . . no, as yet a breath. 

Harold. Look up ! look up ! 

Edith! 
Aldred. Confuse her not ; she hath 
begun 
Her life-long prayer for thee. 

Aldwijth. O noble Harold, 

I would thou couldst have sworn. 
Harold. For thine own pleasure 1 
Aldwi/th. No, but to please our 
dying king, and those 
Who make thy good their own — all 
England, Earl. 
Aldred. I would thou couldst have 
sworn. Our holy king 
Hath given his virgin lamb to Holy 

Church 
To save thee from the curse. 

Harold. Alas ! poor man, 

His promise brought it on me. 

Aldred. O good son! 

That knowledge made him all the 

carefuller 
To find a means whereby the curse 

might glance 
From thee and England. 

Harold. Father, we so loved — 

Aldred. The more the love, the 
mightier is the jjrayer ; 
The more the love, the more accept- 
able 
The sacrifice of both your loves to 

heaven. 
No sacrifice to heaven, no help from 

heaven ; 
That runs thro' all the faiths of all 

the world. 
And sacrifice there must be, for the 

king 
Is holy, and hath talk'd with God, 

and seen 
A shadowing horror ; there are signs 
in heaven — 
Harold. Your comet came and went. 
Aldred. And signs on earth ! 

Knowest thou Senlac hill 1 

Harold. I know all Sussex ; 

A good entrenchment for a perilous 

hour ! 

Aldred. Pray God that come not 

suddenly ! There is one 

Who passing by that hill three nights 

ago — 
He shook so that he scarce could out 

with it — 
Heard, heard — 

Harold. The wind in his hair? 

Aldred. A ghostly horn 



530 



HAROLD. 



Blowing continually, iind faint battle- 
hymns, 
And cries, and clashes, and the groans 

of men ; 
And dreadful shadows strove upon 

the hill, 
And dreadful lights crept up from out 

the marsh — 
Corpse-candles gliding over nameless 

graves — 
Harold. At Senlac 1 
Aldred. , Senlac. 

Edward (leaking). Senlac! Sangue- 

lac, 
The Lake of Blood ! 

Stigand. This lightning before 

death 
Plays on the word, — and Normanizes 

too! 
Harold. Hush, father, hush ! 
Edward. Thou uncanonical fool. 
Wilt thou play with the thunder i 

North and Soutli 
Thunder together, showers of blood 

are blown 
Before a never ending blast, and 

hiss 
Against the blaze they cannot quench 

— a lake, 
A sea of blood — we are drown'd in 

blood — for God 
Has fill'd the quiver, and Death has 

drawn the bow — 
Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! the arrow ! the 

arrow ! [^Dics. 

Stigand. It is the arrow of death in 

his own heart — 
And our great Council wait to crown 

thee King. 



SCENE II. — In the Garden. The 
King's House near London. 

Edith. Crown'd, crpwn'd and lost, 
crown'd King — and lost to me! 
(Singing.) 
Two young lovers in winter weather, 

None to guide them, 
Walk'd at night on the misty heather ; 
Night, as black as a raven's feather ; 
Both were lost and found together, 
None beside them. 

That is the burthen of it — lost and 

found 
Together :n the cruel river Swale 
A hundred years ago ; and there's 

another. 

Lost, lost, the light of day. 
To which the lover answers lovingly 

" I am beside thee." 
Lost, lost, we have lost the way. 
" Love, I will guide thee." 



Whither, whither ? into the river, 
Where we two may be lost together. 
And lost for ever ? " Oh ! never, oh ! 

never, 
Tho' we be lost and be found to- 
gether." 

Some think tliey loved within the pale 

forbidden 
By Holy Church : but who shall say ? 

the truth 
Was lost in that fierce North, wliere 

theij were lost. 
Where all good things are lost, where 

Tostig lost 
The good hearts of his people. It is 

Harold ! 

(Enter Harold.) 
Harold the King ! 
Harold. Call me not King, 

but Harold. 
Edith. Nay, thou art King I 
Harold. Thine, thine, or King 

or churl ! 
My girl, tliou hast been weeping : turn 

not tliou 
Thy face away, but rather let me be 
King of the moment to thee, and com- 
mand 
That kiss my due when subject, which 

will make 
My kingship kinglier to me than to 

reign 
King of the world without it. 

Edith. Ask me not, 

Lest I should yield it, and the second 

curse 
Descend upon thine head, and thou 

be only 
King of the moment over England. 

Harold. Edith, 

Tho' somewhat less a king to my true 

self 
Than ere they crown'd me one, for I 

have lost 
Somewhat of upright stature thro' 

mine oath. 
Yet thee I would not lose, and sell 

not thou 
Our living passion for a dead man's 

dream ; 
Stigand believed he knew not what he 

spake. 
Oh God ! I cannot help it, but at 

times 
They seem to me too narrow, all the 

faiths 
Of this grown world of ours, whose 

baby eye 
Saw them sufScient. Fool and wise, 

I fear 
This curse, and scorn it. But a little 

light ! — 
And on it falls the shadow of the 

priest ; 



HAROLD. 



531 



Heaven yield us more ! for better, 

Woden, all 
Our cancell'd warrior-gods, our grim 

Walhalla, 
Eternal war, than that the Saints at 

peace 
The Holiest of our Holiest one should 

be 
This William's fellow-tricksters ; — 

better die 
Than credit this, for death is death, 

or else 
Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me — 

thou art not 
A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear 
There might be more than brother in 

my kiss. 
And more than sister in thine own. 
Edith. 1 dare not. 

Harold. Scared by the church — 
" Love for a whole life long " 
When was that sung ? 

Edith. Here to the nightingales. 
Hdrold. Their anthems of no 
church, how sweet they are ! 
Nor kingly priest, nor priestly king to 

cross 
Their billings ere they nest. 

Edith. They are but of spring, 

They fly the winter change — not so 

with us — 
No wings to come and go. 

Harold. But wing'd souls flying 
Beyond all change and in the eternal 

distance 
To settle on the Truth. 

Edith. They are not so true, 

They change their mates. 

Harold. Do they ? I did not know 

it. 
Edith. They say thou art to wed 

the Lady Aldwyth. 
Harold. They say, they say. 
Edith. If this be politic, 

And well for thee and England — and 

for her — 
Care not for me who love thee. 

Gurth {callin;;). Harold, Harold! 
Harold. The voice of Gurth ! (Enter 
Gurth.) Good even, my good 
brother ! 
Gurth. Good even, gentle Edith. 
Edith. Good even, Gurth. 

Gurth. Ill news hath come ! Our 
hapless brother, Tostig — 
He, and the giant King of Norway, 

Harold 
Hardrada — Scotland, Ireland, Ice- 
land, Orkney, 
Are landed North of Humber, and in 

a field 
So packt with carnage that the dykes 

and brooks 
Were bridged and damm'd with dead, 

have overthrown 
Morcar and Edwin. 



Harold. Well then, we must 

fight. 
How blows the wind 1 

Gurth. Against St. Vaiery 

And William. 

Harold. Well then, we will to the 

North. 
Gurth. Ay, but worse news : this 
William sent to Rome, 
Swearing thou swarest falsely by his 

Saints : 
The Pope and that Archdeacon Hilde- 

brand 
His master, heard him, and have sent 

him back 
A holj^ gonfanon, and a blessed hair 
Of Peter, and all Erance, all Bur- 
gundy, 
Poitou, all Christendom is raised 

against thee ; 
He hath cursed thee, and all those 

who fight for thee, 
And given thy realm of England to 
the bastard. 
Harold. Ha! ha! 

Edith. Oh ! laugh not!.. . . Strange 
and gliastly in the gloom 
And shadowing of this double thun- 
der-cloud 
That lours on England — laughter! 

Harold. No, not strange ! 

This was old human laughter in old 

Eome 
Before a Pope was born, when that 

which reign'd 
Call'd itself God. — A kindly render- 
ing 
Of " Eender unto Ctesar." . . . The 

Good Shepherd ! 
Take this, and render that. 

Gurth. They have taken York. 

Harold. The Lord was God and 

came as man — the Pope 

Is man and comes as God. — York 

taken 1 

Gurth. Yea, Tostig hath taken 

York! 
Harold. To York then. Edith, 

Hadst thou been braver, I had better 

braved 
All — but I love thee and thou me — 

and that 
Remains beyond all chances and all 

churches, 
And that thou knowest. 

Edith.. Ay, but take back thy ring. 
It burns my hand — a curse to thee 

and me. 
I dare not wear it. 

IProJfers Harold the ring, 2rhich he tak-es. 

Harold. But I dare. God with thee ! 

[Exeunt Harold and Gurth. 

Edith. The King hath cursed him, 

if he many me ; 

The Pope hath cursed him, marry me 

or no ! 



532 



HAROLD. 



God help me ! I know nothing — can 

but pray 
For Harokl — pray, pray, pray — no 

help but prayer, 
A breath that fleets beyond this iron 

world. 
And touches Him that made it. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. — In Northumbria. 

Archbishop Aldred, Morcar, Ed- 
win, and Forces. Enter Harold. 
The standard of the golden Dragon 
of Wessex preceding him. 

Harold. What ! are thy people sul- 
len from defeat 1 
Our Wessex dragon flies beyond the 

Humber, 
No voice to greet it. 

Edwin. Let not our great king 

Believe us sullen — only shamed to 

the quick 
Before the king — as having been so 

bruised 
By, Harold, king of Norway; but our 

help 
Is Harold, king of England. Pardon 

us, thou ! 
Our silence is our reverence for the 
king ! 
Harold. Earl of the Mercians ! if 
the truth be gall. 
Cram me not thou with honey, when 

our good hive 
Needs every sting to save it. 

Voices. Aldwyth! Aldwyth! 

Harold. Whycry thy people on thy 

sister's name ? 
Morcar. She hath won upon our 
people thro' her beauty, 
And pleasantness among them. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Akhvyth ! 

Harold. They shout as they would 

have her for a queen. 
Morcar. She hath followed with our 

host, and suffer'd all. 
Harold. What would ye, men ? 
Voice. Our old Northumbrian 

crown. 
And kings of our own choosing. 

Harold. Your old crown 

Were little help without our Saxon 

carles 
Against Hardrada. 

Voice. Little ! we are Danes, 

Who conquer'd what we walk on, our 

own field. 

Harold. They have been plotting 

here ! [Aside. 

Voice. He calls us little ! 

Harold. The kingdoms of this world 

began with little, 



A hill, a fort, a city — that reach'd a 

hand 
Down to the field beneath it, " Be thou 

mine," 
Then to the next, "Thou also!" If 

the field 
Cried out " I am mine own ; " another 

hill 
Or fort, or city, took it, and the first 
Fell, and the next became an Empire. 
Voice. Yet 

Thou art but a West Saxon : ice are 
Danes ! 
Harold. My mother is a Dane, and 
I am English ; 
There is a pleasant fable in old books. 
Ye take a stick, and break it ; bind a 

score 
All in one faggot, snap it over knee, 
Ye cannot. 

Voice. Hear King Harold ! he 

says true ! 
Harold. Would ye be Norsemen ? 
Voices. No ! 

Harold. Or Norman 1 

Voices. No ! 

Harold. Snap not the faggot-band 

then. 
Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ah, but thou art not kingly, 
only grandson 
To Wulfnoth, a poor cow-herd. 

Harold. This old Wulfnoth 

Would take mo on his knees and tell 

me tales 
Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great 
Who drove you Danes; and j'Ct he 

held that Dane, 
Jute, Angle, Saxon, were or should 

be all 
One England, for this cow-herd, like 

my father. 
Who shook tlie Norman scoundrels 

off the throne. 
Had in him kingly thoughts — a king 

of men, 
Not made but born, like the great 

king of all, 
A light among the oxen. 

Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ah, and I love him now, for 
mine own father 
Was great, and cobbled. 

Voice. Thou art Tostig's brother, 
Who wastes the land. 

Harold. This brother comes to save 
Your land from waste ; I saved it 

once before, 
For when your people banish'd Tostig 

hence, 
And Edward would have sent a host 

against you. 
Then I, who loved my brother, bade 

the king 
Who doted on him, sanction your de- 
cree 



HAROLD. 



533 



Of Tostig's banishment, and choice 

of Morcar, 
To help tlie realm from scattering. 

Voice. King ! thy brother, 

If one may dare to speak the truth, 

was wrong'd. 
Wild was he, born so : but the plots 

against him 
Had madden'd tamer men. 

Morcar. Tliou art one of those 

Who brake into Lord Tostig's treas- 
ure-house 
And slew two hundred of his following, 
And now, when Tostig hath come back 

with power. 
Are frighted back to Tostig. 

Old Thane. Ugh ! Plots and feuds ! 
This is my ninetieth birthday. Can 

ye not 
Be brethren ? Godwin still at feud 

with Alfgar, 
And Alfgar hates King Harold. Plots 

and feuds ! 
This is my ninetieth birthday ! 

Harold. Old man, Harold 

Hates nothing ; not his fault, if our 

two houses 
Be less than brothers. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Harold, Aldwyth ! 
Harold. Again! Morcar! Edwin! 

What do they mean ? 
Edwin. So the good king would 
deign to lend an ear 
Not overscornf ul, we might chance — 

perchance — 
To guess their meaning. 

Morcar. Thine own meaning, Har- 
old, 
To make all England one, to close all 

feuds, 
Mixing our bloods, that thence a king 

may rise 
Half-Godwin and half-Alfgar, one to 

rule 
All England beyond question, beyond 
quarrel. 
Harold. Who sow'd this fancy here 

among the people ? 
Morcar. Who knows what sows 
itself among the people ? 
A goodly flower at times. 

Harold. The Queen of Wales 1 

Why, Morcar, it is all but duty in her 

To hate me ; I have heard she hates 

me. 

Morcar. No ! 

For I can swear to that, but cannot 

swear 
That these will follow thee against 

the Norsemen, 
If thou deny them this. 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, 

When will ye cease to plot against 
my house ? 
Edwin. The king can scarcely 
dream that we, who know 



His prowess in the mountains of the 

West, 
Should care to plot against him in 
the North. 
Morcar. Who dares arraign us, 

king, of such a plot ? 
Harold. Ye heard one witness even 

now. 
Morcar. The craven ! 

There is a faction risen again for 

Tostig, 
Since Tostig came with Norway — 
fright not love. 
Harold. Morcar and Edwin, M'ill ye, 
if I yield. 
Follow against the Norseman ? 

Morcar. Surely, surely! 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye 
upon oath. 
Help us against the Norman ? 

Morcar. With good will ; 

Yea, take the Sacrament upon it, 
king. 
Harold. Where is thy sister ? 
Morcar. Somewhere hard at hand. 
Call and she comes. 

[0«e (joes out, then enter Aldwyth. 
Harold. Idoubtnotbutthouknowest 
Why thou art summon'd. 

Aldwyth. Why ? — I stay with these. 
Lest thy fierce Tostig spy me out 

alone. 
And flay me all alive. 

Harold. Canst thou love one 

Who did discrown thine husband, un- 

queen thee ? 
Didst thou not love thine husband ? 

Aldwyth. Oh ! my lord, 

The nimble, Avild, red, wiry, savage 

king — 
That was, my lord, a match of policy. 
Harold. Was it ? 

I knew him brave : he loved his land : 

he fain 
Had made her great : his finger on her 

harp 
(I heard him more than once) had in 

it Wales, 
Her floods, her woods, her hills : had 

I been liis, 
I had been all Welsh. 

Aldwyth. Oh, ay — all Welsh — 
and yet 
I saw thee drive him up his hills — 

and women 
Cling to the conquer'd, if they love, 

the more , 
If not, they cannot hate the conqueror. 
We never — oh ! good Morcar, speak 

for us. 
His conqueror conquer'd Aldwyth. 
Harold. Goodly news ! 

Morcar. Doubt it not thou ! Since 
Griffytli's head was sent 
To Edward, she hath said it. 

Harold. I had rather 



5^4 



HAROLD. 



She would have loved her husband. 

Aldwyth, Aldwyth, 
Canst thou love me, thou knowing 

where I love ? 
Aldwijth. I can, my lord, for mine 

own sake, for thine. 
For England, for thy poor white dove, 

who flutters 
Between thee and the porch, but then 

would find 
Her nest within the cloister, and be 

still. 
Harold. Canst thou love one, who 

cannot love again 1 
Aldwijt/i. Full hope have I that love 

will answer love. 
Harold. Then in the name of the 

great God, so be it ! 
Come, Aldred, join our hands before 

the hosts, 
That all may see. 

[Aldred /o;?(s the hands of Harold 

atid Aldwyth and blesses them. 
Voices. Harold, Harold and Ald- 
wyth ! 
Harold. Set forth our golden Dra- 
gon, let him flap 
The wings that beat down Wales ! 
Advance our Standard of tlie Warrior, 
Dark among gems and gold ; and 

thou, brave banner, 
Blaze like a night of fatal stars on 

those 
Who read their doom and die. 
Where lie the Norsemen ? on the 

Derwent ? ay 
At Stamford-bridge. 
Morcar, collect thy men ; Edwin, my 

friend — 
Thou lingerest. — Gurth, — 
Last night King Edward came to me 

in dreams — 
The rosy face and long down-silvering 

beard — 
He told me I should conquer : — 
I am no woman to put faith in dreams. 

{To his army.) 
Last night King Edward came to me 

in dreams, 
And told me we should conquer. 

Voices. Forward ! Forward ! 

Harold and Holy Cross ! 

Aldwyth. The day is won ! 

SCENE IL — A Plain. Before the 
Battle of Stamford-Bridge. 

Harold and his Guard. 

Harold. Who is it comes this way ? 
Tostig ? {Enter Tostig with a 
small force.) O brother, 
What art thou doing here 1 

Tostig. I am foraging 

For Norway's army. 

Harold. I could take and slay thee. 
Thou art in arms against us. 



Tostig. Take and slay me, 

For Edward loved me. 

Harold. Edward bade me spare 

thee. 
Tostig. I hate King Edward, for he 
join'd with thee 
To drive me outlaw'd. Take and slay 

me, I say. 
Or I shall count thee fool. 

Harold. Take thee, or free thee, 
Free thee or slay thee, Norway will 

have war ; 
No man would strike with Tostig, save 

for Norway. 
Thou art nothing in thine England, 

save for Norway, 
Who loves not thee but war. AVhat 

dost tliou here. 
Trampling thy mother's bosom into 
blood ? 
Tostig. She hath wean'd me from 
it with such bitterness. 
I come for mine own Earldom, my 

Northumbria ; 
Thou hast given it to the enemy of 
our house. 
Harold. Northumbria threw thee 
oft", she will not have thee. 
Thou hast misused her : and, O crown- 
ing crime ! 
Hast murder'd thine own guest, the 

son of Orm, 
Gamel, at thine own hearth. 

Tostig. TJie slow, fat fool ! 

He drawl'd and prated so, I smote 

him suddenly, 
I knew not what I did. He held with 

Morcar. — 
I hate myself for all things that I 
do. 
Harold. And Morcar holds with 
us. Come back with him. 
Know wliat tliou dost ; and we may 

find for thee. 
So thou be chasten'd by thj-^ banish- 
ment, 
Som'e easier earldom. 

Tostig. What for Norway then ? 
He looks for land among us, he and 
his. 
Harold. Seven feet of English land, 
or something more. 
Seeing he is a giant. 

Tostig. That is noble ! 

That sounds of Godwin. 

Harold. Come thou back, and be 
Once more a son of Godwin. 

Tostig (turns away). O brother, 
brother, 
Harold — 

Harold {laying his hand on Tostig's 
shoidder). Nay then, come thou 
back to us ! 
Tostig {after a pause turning to him). 
Never shall any man say that I, 
that Tostig 



HAROLD. 



535 



Conjured the mightier Harold from 

his North 
To do the battle for me here in Eng- 
land, 
Then left him for the meaner ! 

thee ! — 
Thou hast no passion for the House 

of Godwin — 
Thou hast but cared to make thyself 

a king — 
Thou hast sold me for a crJ^ — 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in 

the Council — 
I hate thee, and despise thee, and defy 

thee. 
Farewell for ever ! [Exit. 

Harold. On to Stamford-bridge ! 



SCENE III. 

After the Battle of Stamford- 
Bridge. Banquet. 

Harold nnd Aldwyth. Gcrth, 
Leofwix, Morcar, Edwin, and 
other Earls and Thanes. 

Voices. Hail ! Harold ! Aldwj^th ! 

hail, bridegroom and bride ! 
Aldicyth {talking v:ith Harold). An- 
swer them thou ! 
Is this our marriage-banquet 1 Would 

the wines 
Of wedding had been dash'd into the 

cups 
Of victory, and our marriage and thy 

glory 
Been drunk together ! these poor 

hands but sew, 
Spin, broider — would that they were 

man's to have held 
The battle-axe by thee ! 

Harold. There jcos a moment 

When being forced aloof from all my 

guard. 
And striking at Hardrada and his 

madmen 
I had wish'd for any weapon. 

Aldici/t/t. Why art thou sad ? 

Harold. I have lost the boy who 
play'd at ball with me, 
With whom I fought another fight 

than this 
Of Stamford-bridge. 

Aldwi/tJi. Ay ! ay ! thy victories 

Over our own poor Wales, when at 

thy side 
He conquer'd with thee. 

Harold. No — the childish fist 

That cannot strike again. 

Aldiri/th. Thou art too kindly. 

Why didst thou let so many Norse- 
men hence ? 
Thy fierce forekings had clench'd 
their pirate hides 



To the bleak church doors, like kites 

upon a barn. 
Harold. Is there so great a need to 

tell thee why ? 
Aldwijtii. Yea, am I not thy wife ? 
Voices. Hail, Harold, Aldwytli ! 

Bridegroom and bride ! 
Aldwi/tk. Answer them ! 

[To Harold. 

Harold (to all). Earls and Thanes ! 

Full thanks for your fair greeting of 

my bride ! 
Earls, Thanes, and all our country- 
men ! the day, 
Our day beside the Derwent will not 

shine 
Less than a star among the goldenest 

hours 
Of Alfred, or of Edward his great son, 
Or Athelstan, or English Irf)nside 
Who fought with Knut, or Knut who 

coming Dane 
Died English. Every man about his 

king 
Fought like a king; the king like his 

own man. 
No better ; one for all, and all for 

one. 
One soul ! and therefore have we shat- 

ter'd back 
The hugest wave from Norseland ever 

yet 
Surged on us, and our battle-axes 

broken 
The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his 

carrion croak 
From the gray sea for ever. Many 

are gone — 
Drink to the dead who died for us, the 

living 
Who fought and would have died, but 

happier lived. 
If happier be to live ; thev both have 

life 
In the large mouth of England, till 

her voice 
Die with the world. Hail — hail ! 
Morcar. May all invaders perish 

like Hardrada ! 
All traitors fail like Tostig ! 

[All drink but Harold. 
Aldwyth. Thy cup's full ! 

Harold. I saw the hand of Tostig 

cover it. 
Our dear, dead, traitor-brother, Tostig, 

him 
Reverently we buried. Friends, had 

I been here. 
Without too large self-lauding I must 

hold 
The sequel had been other than his 

league 
With Norway, and this battle. Peace 

be with him ! 
He was not of the worst. If there be 

those 



536 



HAROLD. 



At banquet in this liall, and hearing 

me — 
Tor there be those I fear who prick'd 

the lion 
To make him spring, that sight of 

Danish blood 
Might serve an end not English — 

lieace with them 
Likewise, if they can be at peace with 

what 
God gave us to divide us from the 

wolf ! 
Aldwiith (aside to Harold). Make 

not our Morcar sullen : it is not 

wise. 
Harold. Hail to the living who 

fought, the dead who fell ! 
Voices. Hail, hail ! 
First Thane. How ran that answer 

which King Harold gave 
To his dead namesake, when he ask'd 

for England ? 
Leaf win. " Seven feet of English 

earth, or something more, 
Seeing he is a giant ! " 

First Thane. Then for the bastard 
Six feet and nothing more ! 

Leo/win. Ay, but belike 

Thou hast not learnt his measure. 

First Thane. By St. Edmund 

I over-measure him. Sound sleep to 

the man 
Here by dead Norway without dream 

or dawn ! 
Second Thane. What is he brag- 
ging still that he will come 
To thrust our Harold's throne from 

under him ? 
My nurse would tell me of a molehill 

crying 
To a mountain " Stand aside and room 

for me ! " 
Fiist Thane. Let him come ! let him 

come. Here's to him, sink or 

swim ! [JJrinks. 

Second Thane. God sink him ! 
First Thane. Cannot hands which 

had the strength 
To shove that stranded iceberg off 

our shores. 
And send the shatter'd North again 

to sea. 
Scuttle his cockle-shell 1 What's 

Brunanburg 
To Stamford-bridge 1 a war-crash, and 

so hard, 
So loud, that, by St. Dunstan, old St. 

Thor — 
By God, we thought him dead — but 

our old Thor 
Heard his own thunder again, and 

woke and came 
Among us again, and mark'd the sons 

of those ' 
Who made this Britain England, 

break the North : 



Mark'd how the war-axe swang, 
Heard how the M'ar-horn sang, 
Mark'd how the spear-head sprang. 
Heard how the shield-wall rang, 
Iron on iron clang. 
Anvil on hammer bang — 

Second Thane. Hammer on anvil, 
hammer on anvil. Old dog. 
Thou art drunk, old dog ! 

First Thane. Too drunk to fight 
with thee ! 

Second Thane. Fight thou with 
thine own double, not with me, 
Keep that for Norman William ! 

First Thane. Down with William ! 

Third Thane. The washerwoman's 
brat ! 

Fourth Thane. The tanner's bas- 
tard ! 

F(fih Thane. The Ealaise byblow! 

[Enter a Thane from Pevensei/, 
spatter' d with mud. 

Harold. Ay, but what late guest. 

As haggard as a fast of fortj' days, 

And caked and plaster'd with a hun- 
dred mires. 

Hath stumbled on our cups ? 

Thane from Pevensey. My lord the 
King ! 

William tlie Norman, for the wind had 
changed — 
Harold. I felt it in the middle of 
that fierce fight 

At Stamford-bridge. William hath 
landed, ha f 
Thane from Pevensei/. Landed at 
Pevensey — I am from Peven- 
sey — 

Hath wasted all the land at Peven- 
sey — 

Hath harried mine own cattle — God 
confound him ! 

I have ridden night and day from 
Pevensey — 

A thousand ships — a hundred thou- 
sand men — 

Thousands of horses, like as many 
lions 

Neighing and roaring as they leapt to 
land — 
Harold. How oft in coming hast 

thou broken bread ? 
Thane from Pevensey. Some thrice, 

or so. 
Harold. Bring not thy hoUowncss 

On our full feast. Famine is fear, 
were it but 

Of being starved. Sit down, sit down, 
and eat, 

And, wlicn again red-blooded, speak 
again ; 
(Aside.) The men that guarded 
England to the South 



HAROLD. 



537 



Were scatter'd to the harvest. . . . 

No power mine 
To hold their force together. . . . 

Many are fallen 
At Stamford-bridge . . . the people 

stupid-sure 
Sleep like their swine ... in South 

and North at once 
I could not be. 

{Aloudf) Gurth, Leofwin, Morcar, 

Edwin ! 
{Pointing to the revellers.) The curse 

of England ! these are drown'd 

in wassail, 
And cannot see the world but thro' 

their wines ! 
Leave them ! and thee too, Aldwyth, 

must I leave — 
Harsh is the news ! hard is our honey- 
moon ! 
Thy pardon. (Turning round to his 

attendants.) Break the banquet 

up ... Ye four ! 
And thou, my carrier-pigeon of black 

news, 
Cram thy crop full, but come when 

thou art call'd. \_Exit Harold. 

ACT V. 

SCENE I.— A Tent on a Mound, 
from which can be seen the 
Field of Senlac. 

Harold, sitting ; hi/ him standing Hugh 
Margot the Monk, Gurth, Leof- 
win. 

Harold. Refer my cause, my crown 

to Eome ! . . . The wolf 
Mudded the brook and predetermined 

all. 
Monk, 
Thou hast said thy say, and had my 

constant " No " 
For all but instant battle. I hear no 

more. 
Margot. Hear me again — for the 

last time. Arise, 
Scatter thy people home, descend the 

hill, 
Lay hands of full allegiance in thy 

Lord's 
And crave his mercy, for the Holy 

Father 
Hath given this realm of England to 

the Norman. 
Harold. Then for the last time, 

monk, I ask again 
"When had the Lateran and the Holy 

Father 
To do with England's choice of her 

own king ? 
Margot. Earl, the first Christian 

Caesar drew to the East 
To leave the Pope dominion in the 

West. 



He gave him all the kingdoms of the 

West. 
Harold. So ! — did he ? — Earl — I 

have a mind to play 
The William with thine ej-esight and 

thy tongue. 
Earl — ay — thou art but but a messen- 

ger of William. 

1 am weary — go : make me not wroth 

with thee ! 
Margot. Mock-king, I am the mes- 
senger of God, 
His Norman Daniel ! Mene, Mene, 

Tekel ! 
Is thy wrath Hell, that I should spare 

to cry. 
Yon heaven is wroth with thee ? Hear 

me again ! 
Our Saints have moved the Church 

that moves the world, 
And all the Heavens and verj- God : 

they heard — 
They know King Edward's promise 

and thine — thine. 
Harold. Should the}' not know free 

England crowns herself ? 
Not know that he nor I had power to 

promise ^ 
Not know tliat Edward cancell'd liis 

own promise ? 
And for m// part therein — Back to 

that juggler, IBising. 

Tell him the Saints are nobler than he 

dreams. 
Tell him that God is nobler than the 

Saints, 
And tell him we stand arm'd on Senlac 

Hill, 
And bide the doom of God. 

Margot. Hear it thro' me. 

The realm for which thou art forsworn 

is cursed. 
The babe enwomb'd and at the breast 

is cursed. 
The corpse thou M-helmest with thine 

earth is cursed. 
The soul who fighteth on thy side is 

cursed. 
The seed thou sowest in thy field is 

cursed, 
The steer whei'ewith thou plowest tin- 
field is cursed. 
The fowl that fleeth o'er thy field is 

cursed. 
And thou, usurper, liar — 

Harold. Out, beast monk ! 

[Lifting his hand to strike him. 
Gurth stops the blow. 
I ever hated monks. 

Margot. I am but a voice 

Among you : murder, martvr me if ye 

will — 
Harold. Thanks, Gurth ! The 

simple, silent, selfless man 
Is M'orth a world of tonguesters. {To 

Margot.) Get thee gone! 



538 



HAROLD. 



He means the thing he says. See him 

out safe ! 
Leofwin. He hath blown himself as 

red as fire with curses. 
An honest fool! Follow me, honest fool, 
But if thou blurt thy curse among our 

folk, 
I know not — I may give that egg- 
bald head 
■ The tap that silences. 

Harold. See him out safe. 

\_Exeunt Leofwin and Margot. 

Gurth. Thou hast lost thine even 

temper, brother Harold! 
Harold. Gurth, when I past by 

Waltham, my foundation 
For men who serve the neighbor, not 

themselves, 
I cast me down prone, praying ; and, 

when I rose. 
They told me that the Holy Eood had 

lean'd 
And bow'd above me; whether that 

which held it 
Had weaken'd, and the Eood itself 

were bound 
To that necessity which binds us down; 
Whether it bow'd at all but in their 

fancy ; 
Or if it bow'd, whether it symbol'd ruin 
Or glory, who shall tell ? but they 

were sad, 
And somewhat sadden'd me. 

Gurth. Yet if a fear, 

Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange 

Saints 
By whom thou swarest, should have 

power to balk 
Thy puissance in this fight with him, 

who made 
And heard tliee swear — brother — / 

have not sworn — 
If the king fall, may not the kingdom 

fain 
But if I fall, I fall, and thou art king ; 
And, if I win, I win, and thou art king ; 
Draw thou to London, there make 

strength to breast 
Whatever chance, but leave this day 

to me. 
Leofwin (entering). And waste the 

land about thee as thou goest. 
And be thy hand as winter on the field. 
To leave the foe no forage. 

Harold. Noble Gurth ! 

Best son of Godwin ! If I fall, I fall — 
The doom of God ! How should the 

people fight 
When the king flies 1 And, Leofwin, 

art thou mad ? 
How should the King of England 

waste the fields 
Of England, his own people ? — No 

glance yet 
Of the Northumbrian helmet on the 

heath ? 



Leofwin. No, but a shoal of wives 
upon the heath. 

And someone saw thy willy-nilly nun 

Vying a tress against our golden 
fern. 
Harold. Vying a tear with our cold 
dews, a sigh 

With these low-moaning heavens. 
Let her be fetch'd. 

We have parted from our wife without 
repi'oach, 

Tho' we have dived thro' all her prac- 
tices ; 

And that is well. 

Leofwin. I saw her even now : 

She hath not left us. 

Harold. Nought of Morcar then 1 
Gurth. Nor seen, nor heard ; thine, 
William's or his own 

As wind blows, or tide flows : belike 
he watches. 

If this war-storm in one of its rough 
rolls 

Wash up that old crown of Northum- 
berland. 
Harold. I had married her for 
Morcar — a sin against 

The truth of love. Evil for good, it 
seems. 

Is of-t as childless of the good as evil 

For evil. 

Leofivin. Good for good hath borne 
at times 

A bastard false as William. 

Harold. Ay, if Wisdom 

Pair'd not with Good. But I am 
somewhat worn, 

A snatch of sleep were like the peace 
of God. 

Gurth, Leofwin, go once more about 
the hill — 

What did the dead man call it — San- 
guelac, 

The lake of blood ? 

Leofwin. A lake that dips in Wil- 
liam 

As well as Harold. 

Harold. Like enough. I have seen 

The trenches dug, the palisades up- 
rear'd 

And wattled thick with ash and wil- 
low-wands ; 

Yea, wrought at them myself. Go 
round once more ; 

See all be sound and whole. No Nor- 
man horse 

Can shatter England, standing shield 
by shield ; 

Tell that again to all. 

Gurth. I will, good brother. 

Harold. Our guardsman hath but 
toil'd his hand and foot, 

I hand, foot, heart and head. Some 

wine ! ( One pours wine into a 

goblet ivhich he hands to Harold.) 

Too much ! 



HAROLD. 



539 



"What ? we must use our battle-axe 

to-day. 
Our guardsmen have slept well, since 

we came in ? 
Leaf win. Ay, slept and snored. 

Your second-sighted man 
That scared the dying conscience of 

the king, 
Misheard their snores for groans. 

They are up again 
And chanting that old song of Brunan- 

burg 
Where England conquer'd. 

Harold. That is well. The Norman, 
What is he doing ? 

Leofwin. Praying for Normandy ; 
Our scouts have heard the tinkle of 

their bells. 
Harold. And our old songs are 

prayers for England too ! 
But by all Saints — 

Leofa-in. Barring the Norman ! 
Harold. Nay, 

Were the great trumpet blowing 

doomsday dawn, 
I needs must rest. Call when the 

Norman moves — 

\_E.v€unt all hut Harold. 
No horse — thousand of horses — our 

shield wall — 
Wall — break it not — break not — 

break — \_8leeps. 

Vision of Edward- Son Harold, I 

thy king, who came before 
To tell thee thou shouldst win at 

Stamford-bridge, 
Come yet once more, from where I am 

at peace. 
Because I loved thee in my mortal 

day. 
To tell thee thou shalt die on Senlac 

hill — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Wulfhotk. O brother, from 

my ghastly oubliette 
I send my voice across the narrow 

seas — 
No more, no more, dear brother, 

nevermore — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Tostici. O brother, most 

unbrotheriike to me, 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in 

my life, 
I give my voice against thee from the 

grave — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Norman Saints. hapless 

Harold ! King but for an hour! 
Thou swarest falsely by our blessed 

bones. 
We give our voice against thee out of 

heaven ! 
Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! The arrow ! 

the arrow! 



Harold (^starting up, battle-axe in 

hand). Away ! 

My battle-axe against your voices. 

Peace ! » 

The king's last word — " the arrow ! " 

I shall die — 
I die for England then, who lived for 

England — 
What nobler ? men must die. 
I cannot fall into a falser world — 
I have done no man wrong. Tostig, 

poor brother. 
Art thou so anger'd ? 
Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy 

hands 
Save for thy wild and violent will 

that wrench'd 
All hearts of freemen from thee. I 

could do 
No other than this way advise the 

king 
Against the race of Godwin. Is it 

possible 
That mortal men should bear their 

earthly heats 
Into yon bloodless world, and threaten 

us thence 
Unschool'd of Death? Thus then 

thou art revenged — 
I left our England naked to the South 
To meet thee in the North. The 

Norseman's raid 
Hath helpt the Norman, and the race 

of Godwin 
Hath ruin'd Godwin. No — our wak- 
ing thoughts 
Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the 

pools 
Of sullen slumber, and arise again 
Disjointed : only dreams — where 

mine own self 
Takes part against myself ! Why ? 

for a spark 
Of self-disdain born in me when I 

sware 
Falsely to him, the falser Norman, 

over 
His gilded ark of mummy-saints, by 

whom 
I knew not that I sware, — not for my- 
self— 
For England — yet not wholly — 

(Enter Edith.) 

Edith, Edith, 
Get thou into thy cloister as the king 
Will'd it : be safe : the perjury-mon- 

gering Count 
Hath made too good an use of Holy 

Church 
To break her close ! There the great 

God of truth 
Fill all thine hours with peace ! — A 

lying devil 
Hath haunted me — mine oath — my 

wife — I fain 



540 



HAROLD. 



Had made my marriage not a lie ; I 

could not : 
Thou art my bride ! and thou in after 

years 
Praying perchance for this poor soul 

of mine 
In cold, white cells beneath an icy 

moon — 
This memory to thee ! — and this to 

England, 
My legacy of war against the Pope 
From child to child, from Pope to 

Pope, from age to age, 
Till the sea wash her level with her 

shores. 
Or till the Pope be Christ's. 

Enter Aldavtth. 
Aldivyth (to Edith). Away from 

him ! 
Edith. I will ... I have not spoken 
to the king 
One word ; and one I must. Farewell ! 

\_Goin^. 
Harold. Not yet. 

Stay. 
Edith. To what use ? 
Harold. The king commands thee, 
woman ! 

(To Aldwyth.) 
Have thy two brethren sent theirforces 
inl 
Aldu-i/th. Nay, I fear not. 
Harold. Then there's no force in 
thee ! 
Thou didst possess thyself of Edward's 

ear 
To part me from the woman that I 

loved ! 
Thou didst arouse the fierce Northum- 
brians ! 
Thou hast been false to England and 

to me ! — 
As ... in some sort ... I have been 

false to thee. 
Leave me. No more — Pardon on both 
sides — go ! 
Aldiojith. Alas, my lord, I loved thee! 
Harold (bitterly). "With a love 

Passing thy love for Griffyth ! where- 
fore now 
Obey mv first and last commandment. 
Go! 
Aldwijth. Harold! husband! Shall 

we meet again ? 
Harold. After the battle — after 

the battle. Go. 
Aldwijth. I go. (Aside.) That I 
could stab her standing there ! 
lExit Aldwyth. 
Edith. Alas, my lord, she loved thee. 
Harold. Never ! never ! 

Edith. I saw it in her eyes ! 
Harold. I see it in thine. 

And not on thee — nor England — fall 
God's doom ! 



Edith. On thee ? on me. And thou 
art England ! Alfred 
Was England. Ethelred was nothing. 

England 
Is but her king, and thou art Harold ! 
Harold. Edith, 

The sign in heaven — the sudden blast 

at sea — 
My fatal oath — the dead Saints — the 

dark dreams — 
Tlie Pope's Anathema — the Holy 

Pood 
Tliatbow'dtomeatWaltham — Edith, 

if 
I, the last English king of England — 
Edith. No, 

First of a line that coming from the 

people. 
And chosen by the people — 

Harold. And fighting for 

And dying for the people — 

Edith. Living ! living ! 

Harold. Yea so, good cheer ! thou 
art Harold, I am Edith ! 
Look not thus wan ! 

Edith. "What matters liow I look 1 
Have we not broken "Wales and Norse- 
land 1 slain. 
Whose life was all one battle, incar- 
nate war. 
Their giant-king, a mightier man-in- 
arms 
Than AVilliam. 

Harold. Ay, my girl, no tricks in 
him — 
No bastard he ! when all was lost, he 

yell'd, 
And bit his shield, and dash'd it on the 

ground. 
And swaying his two-handed sword 

about him, 
Two deaths at every swing, ran in upon 

us 
And died so, and I loA^'d him as I 

hate 
This liar who made me liar. If Hate 

can kill. 
And Loathing wield a Saxon battle- 
axe — 
Edith. Waste not thy might before 

the battle ! 
Harold. No, 

And thou must hence. Stigand will 

see thee safe, 
And so — Farewell. 

\He is goinxj, but turns back. 
The ring thou darest not wear, 
I have had it fashion'd, see, to meet 
my hand. 
[Harold shows the ring which is on 
his Jimjer. 
Farewell ! 

\^He is goimi, but turns back again. 
I am as dead as Death this day to ought 

of earth's 
Save William's death or mine. 



HAROLD. 



541 



Edith. Thy death ! — to-day ! 

Is it not thy birthday ? 

Harold. Ay, that hajjpy day ! 

A birthday welcome ! happy days and 

many ! 
One — this ! \.They embrace. 

Look, I will bear thy blessing into the 

battle 
And front the doom of God. 
Norman cries (heard in the distance). 
Ha Kou ! Ha Ron ! 

Enter Gueth. 
Gurth. The Norman moves ! 
Harold. Harold and Holy Cross ! 
[Exeunt Harold and Gurth. 

Enter Stigand. 

Stigand. Our Church in arms — the 

lamb the lion — not 
Spear into pruning-hook — the counter 

way — 
Cowl, helm ; and crozier, battle-axe. 

Abbot Alfwig, 
Leofric, and all the monks of Peter- 

boro' 
Strike for the king ; but I, old wretch, 

old Stigand, 
With hands too limp to brandish iron 

— and yet 
I have a power — would Harold ask 

me for it — 
I have a power. 

Edith. What power, holy father 1 
Stigand. Power now from Harold 

to command thee hence 
And see thee safe from Senlac. 

Edith. I remain ! 

Stigand. Yea, so will I, daughter, 

until I find 
Which way the battle balance. I can 

see it 
From where we stand : and, live or 

die, I would 
I were among them ! 

Canons from Waltham (singing without). 

Salva patriam 
Sancte Pater, 
Salva Fill, 
Salva Spiritus, 
Salva patriam, 
Sancta Alater.^ 

Edith. Are those the blessed angels 

quiring, father ? 
Stigand. No, daughter, but the 

canons out of Waltham, 
The king's foundation, that have fol- 

low'd him. 
Edith. God of battles, make their 

wall of shields 

' The a throughout these Latin hymns 
should be sounded broad, as in " father." 



Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their 

palisades ! 
What is that whirring sound ? 

Stigand. The Norman arroAv ! 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — 

is he safe ? 
Stigand. The king of England 
stands between his banners. 
He glitters on the crowning of the hill. 
God save King Harold ! 

Edith. — chosen by his people 

And fighting for his people ! 

Stigand. There is one 

Come as Goliath came of yore — he 

flings 
His brand in air and catches it again, 
He is chanting some old warsong. 

Edith. And no David 

To meet him ? 

Stigand. Ay, there springs a Saxon 
on him. 
Falls — and another falls. 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. Lo ! our good Gurth hath 

smitten him to the death. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of 

Harold ! 
Canons (singing). 

Hostis in Angliam 

liuit prajdator, 
Illorum, Domine, 

Scutum scindatur ! 
Hostis per Anglije 
Plagas bacchatur ; 
Casa crematur 
Pastor fugatur 
Grex trucidatur — 
Stigand. Hlos trucida, Domine. 
Edith. Ay, good father. 

Canons (singing). 

Illorum scelera 
Poena sequatur! 
English cries. Harold and Holy 

Cross ! Out! out! 
Stigand. Our javelins 

Answer their arrows. All the Nor- 
man foot 
Are storming up the hill. The range 

of knights 
Sit, each a statue on his horse, and 
wait. 
English cries. Harold and God Al- 
mighty ! 
Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 
Canons (singing). 

Eques cum pedite 

Priepediatur ! 
Illorum in lacrymas 

Cruor f undatur ! 
Pereant, pereant, 
Anglia precatur. 
Stigand. Look, daughter, look. 
Edith. Nay, father, look for me ! 
Stigand. Our axes lighten with a sin- 
gle flash 



542 



HAROLD. 



About the summit of the hill, and heads 
And arms are sliver'd oft' and splin- 

ter'd by 
Their lightning — and they fly — the 
Norman flies. 
Edith. Stigand, O father, have we 

won the day ? 
Stigand. No, daughter, no — they 
fall behind the horse — 
Their horse are thronging to the bar- 
ricades ; 
I see the gonfanon of Holy Peter 
Floating above their helmets — ha! 
he is down ! 
Edith. He down ! Who down 1 
Stigand. The Norman Count is 

down. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of 

England ! 
Stigand. No, no, he hath risen 
again — he bares his face — 
Shouts something — he points onward 

— all their horse 
Swallow the hill locust-like, swarming 
up. 
Edith. O God of battles, make his 
battle-axe keen 
As thine own sharp-dividing justice, 

heavy 
As thine own bolts that fall on crime- 

ful heads 
Charged with the weight of heaven 
where from they fall ! 

Canons (singing). 

Jacta tonitrua 
Deus bellator ! 

Surgas e tenebris, 
Sis vindicator! 

Fulmina, fulmina, 
Deus vastator! 

Edith. O God of battles, they are 
three to one. 
Make thou one man as three to roll 
them down ! 

Canons [singing). 

Equus cum equite 

Dejiciatur ! 
Acies, Acies 
Prona sternatur ! 
lUorum lanceas 
Frange Creator! 

Stigand. Yea, yea, for how their 

lances snap and shiver 
Against the shifting blaze of Harold's 

axe I 
War-woodman of old Woden, how he 

fells 
The mortal copse of faces ! There ! 

And there ! 
The horse and borseman cannot meet 

the shield. 
The blow that brains the horseman 

cleaves the horse, 



The horse and horseman roll along 
the hill. 

They fly once more, they fly, the Nor- 
man flies ! 

Equus cum equite 
Prfficipitatur. 

Edith. O God, the God of truth hath 
heard my cry. 
Follow them, follow them, drive them 
to the sea ! 

Illorum scelera 
Poena sequatur ! 

Stigand. Truth I no ; a lie ; a trick, 
a Norman trick ! 
They turnon thepursuer,liorse against 

foot. 
They murder all that follow. 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. Hot-headedfools — toburst 
the wall of shields ! 
They have broken the commandment 
of the king ! 
Edith. His oath was broken — 
holy Norman Saints, 
Ye that now are of heaven, and see 

beyond 
Your Norman shrines, pardon it, par- 
don it. 
That he forsware himself for all he 

loved, 
Me, me and all ! Look out upon the 
battle ! 
Stigand. They thunder again upon 
the barricades. 
My sight is eagle, but the strife so 

thick — 
This is the hottest of it: hold, ash! 
hold, willow ! 
English cries. Out, out ! 
Norman cries. Ha Rou ! 

Stigand. Ha ! Gurth hath leajtt upon 
him 
And slain him : he hath fallen. 

Edith. And I am heard. 

Glory to God in the Highest ! fallen, 

fallen ! 

Stigand. No, no, his horse — he 

mounts another — wields 

His war-club, dashes it on Gurth, and 

Gurth, 
Our noble Gurth, is down ! 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. And Leof win is down ! 
Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Thou that knowest, let not my strong 

prayer 
Be weaken'd in thy sight, because I 

love 
The husband of another ! 

Norman cries. Ha Rou! Ha Rou! 
Edith. I do not hear our English 



war-cry. 

Sti(jand. 



No. 



HAROLD. 



543 



Edith. Look out upon the battle — 

is he safe "? 
Sligand. He stands between the 

banners with the dead 
So piled about him he can hardly 

move. 
Edith (takes up the war-cry). Out! 

out! 
Norman cries. Ha Rou ! 
Edith {cries out). Harold and Holy 

Cross ! 
Norman cries. Ha Rou! Ha Rou! 
Edith. What is that whirring sound ? 
Stigand. The Norman sends his ar- 
rows up to Heaven, 
They fall on those M'ithin the palisade ! 
Edith. Look out upon the hill — is 

Harold there ? 
Stigand. Sanguelac — Sanguelac — 

the arrow — the arrow ! — away ! 

SCENE IL— Field of the Dead. 
Night. 

Aldwyth and Edith. 

Aldwyth. O Edith, art thou here ? 
6 Harold, Harold — 
Our Harold — we shall never see him 
more. 
Edith. For there was more than sis- 
ter in m}^ kiss. 
And so the saints were wroth. I can- 
not love them. 
For they are Norman saints — and jqI 

I should — 
They are so much holier than their 

harlot's son 
With whom they play'd their game 
against the king ! 
Aldtfi/th. The king is slain, the 

kingdom overthrown ! 
Edith. No matter ! 
Aldwyth. How no matter, Harold 
slain ? — 
I cannot find his body. O help me 
thou ! 

Edith, if I ever wrouglit against 

thee. 
Forgive me thou, and help me here I 
Edith. No matter ! 

Aldwyth. Not help me, nor forgive 

me 1 
Edith. So thou saidest. 

Aldivyth. I say it now, forgive me ! 
Edith. Cross me not ! 

1 am seeking one who wedded me in 

secret. 
Whisper ! God's angels only know it. 

Ha! 
What art thou doing here among the 

dead 1 
They are stripping the dead bodies 

naked yonder, 
And thou art confe to rob them of 

their rings ! 



Aldwyth. O Edith, Edith, I have 
lost both crown 
And husband. 

Edith. So have I. 

Aldwyth. I tell thee, girl, 

I am seeking my dead Harold. 

Edith. And I mine ! 

The Hoi}' Father strangled him with 

a hair 
Of Peter, and his brother Tostig helpt ; 
The wicked sister clapt her hands and 

laugh'd ; 
Then all the dead fell on him. 

Aldwyth. Edith, Edith — 

Edith. What was he like, this hus- 
band ? like to thee ! 
Call not for help from me. I knew 

him not. 
He lies not here : not close beside the 

standard. 
Here fell the truest, manliest hearts 

of England. 
Go further hence and find him. 

Aldiryth. She is crazed ! 

Edith. That doth not matter either. 
Lower the light. 
He must be here. 

Enter two Canons, Osgod and 
Atheleic, icith torches. They 
turn over the dead bodies and 
examine them as they pass. 

Osgod. I think that this is Thurkill. 
Athelric. More likely Godric. 
Osgod. I am sure this body 

Is Alfwig, the king's uncle. 

Athelric. So it is ! 

No, no — brave Gurth, one gash from 
brow to knee ! 
Osgod. And here is Leofwin. 
Edith. And here is He ! 

Aldwyth. Harold? Oh no — nay, if 
it were — my God, 
They have so maim'd and murder'd 

all his face 
There is no man can swear to him. 

Edith. But one woman ! 

Look you, we never mean to part again. 
I have found him, I am happy. 
Was there not someone ask'd me for 

forgiveness 1 
I yield it freely, being the true wife 
Of this dead King, who never boi'e 
revenge. 

Enter Count William and William 
Ma let. 

William. Who be these women ? 

And what body is this ? 
Edith. Harold, thy better! 
William. Ay, and what art thou ? 
Edith. His wife! 

Malet. Not true, my girl, here is the 
Queen ! [Pointing out Aldwyth. 



544 



HAROLD. 



William (to Aldwyth). AVast thou 

his Queen ? 
Aldicyth. I was the Queen of Wales. 
William. Why then of England. 

Madam, fear vis not. 
(To Malet.) Knowest thou this 

other ? 
Malet. When I visited England, 
Some held she was his wife in secret 

— some — 
Well — some believed she was his 
paramour. 
Edith. Norman, thou liest ! liars all 
of you. 
Your Saints and all ! / am his wife ! 

and she — 
For look, our marriage ring ! 
\_She draws it off the jinc/er of Harold. 
I lost it somehow — 
I lost it, playing with it when I was 

wild. 
That bred the doubt ! but I am wiser 

now . . . 
I am too wise . . . Will none among 

you all 
Bear me true witness — only for this 

once — 
That I have found it here again ? 

[She puts it on. 

And thou. 

Thy wife am I for ever and evermore, 

[Falls on the body and dies. 

William. Death ! — and enough of 

death for this one day. 

The day of St. Calixtus, and the day, 

My day when I was born. 

Malet. And this dead king's 

Who, king or not, hath kinglike 

fought and fallen. 
His birthday, too. It seems but yes- 

ter-even 
I held it with him in his English 

halls, 
His day, with all his rooftree ringing 

" Harold," 
Before he fell into the snare of Guy ; 
When all men counted Harold would 

be king, 
And Harold was most happy. 

William. Thou art half English. 
Take them away ! 

Malet, I vow to build a church to God 
Here on the hill of battle ; let our 

high altar 
Stand where their standard fell . . . 

where these two lie. 
Take them away, I do not love to see 

them. 
Pluck the dead woman off the dead 
man, Malet ! 



Malet. Faster than ivy. Must I 

hack her arms off ? 
How shall I part them ? 

William. Leave them. Let them be ! 
Bury him and his paramour together. 
He that was false in oath to me, it 

seems 
Was false to his own wife. We will 

not give him 
A Christian burial ; yet he was a war- 
rior, 
And wise, yea truthful, till that 

blighted vow 
Which God avenged to-day. 
Wrap them together in a purple cloak 
And lay them both upon the waste 

sea-shore 
At Hastings, there to guard the land 

for which 
He did forswear himself — a warrior 

— ay, 
And but that Holy Peter fought for us. 
And that the false Northumbrian held 

aloof. 
And save for that chance arrow which 

the Saints 
Sharpen'd and sent against him — 

who can tell ? — 
There horses hadl slain beneath me : 

twice 
I thought that all was lost. Since I 

knew battle. 
And that was from my boyhood, 

never yet — 
No, by the splendor of God — have 1 

fought men 
Like Harold and his brethren, and his 

guard 
Of English. Everj^ man about his king 
Fell where he stood. They loved him : 

and, pray God 
My Normans may but move as true 

with me 
To the door of death. Of one self- 
stock at first. 
Make them again one people — Nor- 
man, P^nglish ; 
And English, Norman ; we should 

have a hand 
To grasp the world with, and a foot 

to stani}} it . . . 
Flat. Praise the Saints. It is over. 

No more blood ! 
I am king of England, so they thwart 

me not, 
And I will rule according to their laws. 
(To Aldwyth.) Madam, we will en- 
treat thee with all honor. 
Aldicijth. My punishment is more 

than I can bear. 



THE LOYEE'S TALE. 



The original Preface to " The Lover's Tale '' states that it was composed in my nineteenth 
year. Two only of the three parts then written were printed, when, feeling the imperfection 
of the poem, I withdrew it from the press. One of my friends however who, boylike, admired 
the boy's work, distributed among our common associates of that hour some copies of 
these two parts, without mj' knowledge, without the omissions and amendments which 
I had in contemplation, and marred by the many misprints of the compositor. Seeing that 
these two parts have of late been mercilesslj' pirated, and that what 1 had deemed scarce 
worthy to live is not allowed to die, may I not be pardoned if I suffer the whole poem at last 
to come into the light — accompanied with a reprint of the sequel — a work of my mature life 
— " The Golden Supper "? 

May, 1879. 

ARGUMENT. 

Julian, whose cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and rival, 
Lionel, endeavors to narrate the story of his own love for her, and the strange sequel. He 
speaks (in Parts II. and III.) of having been haunted by visions and the sound of bells, tolling 
for a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage ; but he breaks away, overcome, as he ap- 
proaches the Event, and a witness to it completes the tale. 

That air which pleased her first. I 

feel thy breath ; 
I come, great Mistress of the ear and 

eye: 
Thy breath is of the pinewood ; and 

tho' years » 

Have hoUow'd out a deep and stormy 

strait 
Betwixt the native land of Love and 

me, 
Breathe but a little on me, and the 

sail 
Will draw me to the rising of the 

sun, 
The lucid chambers of the morning 

star, 
And East of Life. 



Here far away, seen from the top- 
most cliff, 

Filling with purple gloom the vacan- 
cies 

Between the tufted hills, the sloping 
seas 

Hung in mid-heaven, and half-way 
down rare sails, 

White as white clouds, floated from 
sky to sky. 

Oh ! pleasant breast of waters, quiet 
bay, 

Like to a quiet mind in the loud 
world. 

Where the chafed breakers of the 
outer sea 

Sank powerless, as anger falls aside 

And withers on the breast of peaceful 
love ; 

Thou didst receive the growth of pines 
that fledged 

The hills that watch'd thee, as Love 
Avatcheth Love, 

In thine own essence, and delight thy- 
self 

To make it wholly thine on sunny 
days. 

Keep thou thy name of " Lover's 
Bay." See, sirs. 

Even now the Goddess of the Past, 
that takes 

The heart, and sometimes touches but 
one string 

That quivers, and is silent, and some- 
times 

Sweeps suddenly all its half-moulder'd 
chords 

To some old melody, begins to 
play 



Permit me, friend, I prythee, 

To pass my hand across my brows, 
and muse 

On those dear hills, that never more 
will meet 

The sight that throbs and aches be- 
neath my touch, 

As tho' there beat a heart in either 
eye; 

For when the outer lights are darken'd 
thus. 

The memory's vision hath a keener 
edge. 

It grows upon me now — the semi- 
circle 

Of dark-blue waters and the narrow 
fringe 

Of curving beach — its wreaths of 
dripping green — 

Its i^ale pink shells — the summer- 
house aloft 

That open'd on the pines with doors 
of glass, 



546 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



A mountain nest — the i^leasure-boat 

that rock'd, 
Light-green with its own shadow, keel 

to keel, 
Upon the dappled dimplings of the 

wave, 
That blanch'd upon its side. 

O Love, O Hope ! 
They come, they crowd upon me all 

at once — 
Moved from the cloud of unforgotten 

things, 
That sometimes on the horizon of the 

mind 
Lies folded, often sweeps athwart in 

storm — 
Flash upon flash they lighten thro' me 

— days 
Of dewy dawning and the amber 

eves 
When thou and I, Camilla, thou and 

I 
Were borne about the bay or safely 

moor'd 
Beneath a low-brow'd cavern, where 

the tide 
Plash'd, sapping its worn ribs ; and all 

without 
The slowly-ridging rollers on the 

cliffs 
Clash'd, calling to each other, and 

thro' tlie arch 
Down those loud waters, like a setting 

star, 
Mixt with the gorgeous west the light- 
house shone. 
And silver-smiling Venus ere she fell 
Would often loiter in her balmy 

blue, 
To crown it with herself. 

Here, too, my love 
Waver'd at anchor with me, when day 

hung 
From his mid-dome in Heaven's airy 

halls ; 
Gleams of the water-circles as they 

broke, 
Flicker'd like doubtful smiles about 

her lips, 
Quiver'd a flying glory on her hair. 
Leapt like a passing thought across 

her eyes ; 
And mine with one that will not pass, 

till earth 
And heaven pass too, dwelt on my 

heaven, a face 
Most starry-fair, but kindled from 

within 
As 'twere with dawn. She was dark- 

hair'd, dark-eyed : 
Oh, such dark .eyes ! a single glance 

of them 
Will govern a whole life from birth 

to death, 



Careless of all things else, led on 
■with light 

In trances and in visions : look at 
them. 

You lose yourself in utter ignorance ; 

You cannot find their depth ; for they 
go back, 

And farther back, and still withdraw 
themselves 

Quite into the deep soid, that ever- 
more 

Fresh springing from her fountains in 
the brain, 

Still pouring thro', floods with redun- 
dant life 

Her narrow portals. 

Trust me, long ago 
I should have died, if it were possible 
To die in gazing on that pcrfcctness 
Which I do bear within me : I had 

died. 
But from my farthest lapse, my latest 

ebb. 
Thine image, like a charm of light 

and strength 
Upon the waters, push'd me back 

again 
On these deserted sands of barren life. 
Tho' from the deep vault where the 

heart of Hope 
Fell into dust, and crumbled in the 

dark — 
Forgetting how to render beautiful 
Her countenance M'ith quick and 

healthful blood — 
Thou didst not sway me upward; 

could I perish 
While thou, a meteor of the sepul- 
chre. 
Didst swathe thyself all round Hope's 

quiet urn 
For ever ? He, that saith it, hath 

o'er-stept 
The slippery footing of his narrow 

wit. 
And fall'n away from judgment. 

Thou art light. 
To whicli my spirit leaneth all licr 

flowers. 
And lengtli of days, and immortality 
Of thought, and freshness ever self- 

renew'd. 
For Time and Grief abode too long 

with Life, 
And, like all other friends i' the world, 

at last 
They grew aweary of her fellowship : 
So Time and Grief did beckon unto 

Death, 
And Deatli drew nigh and beat the 

doors of Life ; 
But thou didst sit alone in the inner 

house, 
A wakeful portress, and didst parle 

with Death, — 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



547 



" This is a charmed dwellinsr wliich I 

hokl ; " 
So Death gave back, and would no 

furtlier come. 
Yet is my life nor in the present time, 
Nor in the present place. To me 

alone, 
Push'd from his chair of regal heri- 
tage. 
The Present is the vassal of the 

Past : 
So that, in that I have lived, do I live, 
And cannot die, and am, in having 

been — 
A portion of the pleasant yesterday. 
Thrust forward on to-day and out of 

place ; 
A body journeying onward, sick with 

toil. 
The weight as if of age upon my 

limbs. 
The grasp of hopeless grief about my 

heart. 
And all the senses weaken'd, save in 

that, 
Which long ago they had glean'd and 

garner'd up 
Into the granaries of memory — 
The clear brow, bulwark of the 

precious brain, 
Chink'd as you see, and seam'd — and 

all the while 
The light soul twines and mingles 

with the growths 
Of vigorous early days, attracted, 

won, 
Married, made one Avith, molten into 

all 
The beautiful in Past of act or place. 
And like the all-enduring camel, 

driven 
Par from the diamond fountain by the 

palms, 
"Who toils across the middle moonlit 

nights. 
Or when the white heats of the blind- 
ing noons 
Beat from the concave sand ; j-et in 

him keeps 
A draught of that sweet fountain that 

he loves. 
To stay his feet from falling, and his 

spirit 
From bitterness of death. 

Ye ask me, friends, 
When I began to love. How should 

I tell you ? 
Or from the after-fulness of my heart, 
Flow back again unto my slender 

spring 
And first of love, tho' every turn and 

depth 
Between is clearer in my life than all 
Its present ilow. Ye know not what 

ye ask. 



How should the broad and open flower 

tell 
What sort of bud it was, when, prest 

together 
In its green sheath, close-lapt in silken 

folds. 
It seem'd to keep its sweetness to it- 
self, 
Yet was not the less sweet for that it 

seem'd ? 
For young Life knows not when young 

Life was born. 
But takes it all for granted : ncitlicr 

Love, 
Warm in the heart, his cradle, can 

remember 
Love in the womb, but restetli satis- 
fied. 
Looking on her that brought him to 

the light : 
Or as men know not when they fall 

asleep 
Into delicious dreams, our other life, 
So know 1 not wlien I began to love. 
This is my sum of knowledge — that 

my love 
Grew with myself — saj' rather, was 

my growth. 
My inward sap, the hold I have on 

earth. 
My outward circling air wherewith I 

breathe. 
Which yet upholds my life, and ever- 
more 
Is to me daily life and daily death : 
For how should I have lived and not 

have loved 1 
Can ye take off the sweetness from 

the flower. 
The color and the sweetness from the 

rose, 
And place them by themselves; or set 

apart 
Their motions and their brightness 

from the stars. 
And then point out the flower or the 

star ? 
Orbuildawall betwixt mj- life and love. 
And tell me where I am ? 'Tis even 

thus : 
In that I live I love ; because I love 
I live : whate'er is fountain to the 

one 
Is fountain to the other ; and whene'er 
Our God unknits the riddle of the 

one. 
There is no shade or fold of mystery 
Swathing the other. 

Many, many years, 
(For they seem many and my most of 

life. 
And well I could have linger'd in that 

porch. 
So unproportion'd to the dwelling- 
place,) 



54S 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



In the Maydews of cliildhooti, opposite 
The flush and dawn of youth, we lived 

together, 
Apart, alone together on those hills. 

Before he saw my day my father 

died, 
And he was happy that he saw it not ; 
But I and the first daisy on iiis grave 
From the same clay came into light 

at once. 
As Love and 1 do number equal years. 
So she, my love, is of an age witli me. 
How like each other was the birth of 

each ! 
On the same morning, almost the same 

hour. 
Under the selfsame aspect of the stars, 
(Oh falsehood of all starcraft!) we 

were born. 
How like each other was the birth of 

each ! 
The sister of my mother — she that 

bore 
Camilla close beneath her beating 

heart. 
Which to the imprison'd spirit of the 

child. 
With its true-touched pulses in the 

flow 
And hourly visitation of the blood. 
Sent notes of preparation manifold. 
And mellow'd echoes of the outer 

world — 
My mother's sister, mother of my 

love, 
Who had a twofold claim upon my 

heart, 
One twofold mightier than the other 

was. 
In giving so much beauty to the 

world. 
And so much wealth as God had 

charged her with — 
Loathing to put it from herself for 

ever. 
Left her own life with it ; and dying 

thus, 
Crown'd with her highest act the 

placid face 
And breathless body of her good deeds 

past. 

So were we born, so orphan'd. She 

was motherless 
And I without a father. So from 

each 
Of those two pillars which from earth 

uphold 
Our childhood, one had fallen away, 

and all 
The careful burthen of our tender 

years 
Trembled upon the other. He that 

gave 



Her life, to me delightedly fulfiU'd 
All lovingkindnesses, all offices 
Of watchful care and trembling ten- 
derness. 
He waked for both : he pray'd for 

both : he slept 
Dreaming of both : nor was his love 

the less 
Because it was divided, and shot forth i 
Boughs on each side, laden with whole- 
some shade. 
Wherein we nested sleeping or awake. 
And sang aloud the matin-song of 
life. 

She was my foster-sister: on one arm 
The flaxen ringlets of our infancies 
Wander'd, the while we rested: one 

soft lap 
Pillow'd us both : a common light of 

eyes 
Was on us as we lay: our baby lips. 
Kissing one bosom, ever drew from 

thence 
The stream of life, one stream, one 

life, one blood. 
One sustenance, which, still as thought 

grew large. 
Still larger moulding all the house of 

thought. 
Made all our tastes and fancies like, 

perhaps — 
All — all but one ; and strange to me, 

and sweet. 
Sweet thro' strange years to know 

that whatsoe'er 
Our general mother meant for me 

alone, 
Our mutual mother dealt to both of 

us : 
So what was earliest mine in earliest 

life, 
I shared with her in whom myself 

remains. 
As was our childhood, so our in- 
fancy, 
They tell me, was a very miracle 
Of fellow-feeling and communion. 
They tell me that we would not be 

alone, — 
We cried when we were parted ; when 

I wept. 
Her smile lit up the rainbow on my 

tears, 
Stay'd on the cloud of sorrow ; that 

we loved 
The sound of one-another's voices 

more 
Than the gray cuckoo loves his name, 

and learn'd 
To lisp in tune together ; that we slept 
In the same cradle alwa3's,face to face. 
Heart Ijeating time to heart, lip press- 
ing lip, 
Folding each other, breathing on each 

other. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



549 



Dreaming togetlier (dreaming of eacli 

other 
They should liave added), till the 

morning light 
Sloped thro' the pines, upon the dewy 

pane 
Falling, unseal'd our eyelids, and we 

woke 
To gaze upon each other. If this be 

true. 
At thought of which my whole soul 

languishes 
And faints, and hath no pulse, no 

breath — as tho' 
A man in some still garden should in- 
fuse 
Eich atar in the bosom of the rose, 
Till, drunk with its own wine, and 

overfull 
Of sweetness, and in smelling of itself, 
It fall on its own thorns — if this be 

true — 
And that way my wish leads me ever- 
more 
Still to believe it — 'tis so sweet a 

thought, 
AVhy in the utter stillness of the soul 
Doth question'd memory answer not, 

nor tell 
Of this our earliest, our closest-drawn, 
Most loveliest, earthly-heavenliest har- 
mony ? 
O blossom'd portal of the lonely 

house. 
Green prelude, April promise, glad 

new year 
Of Being, which Mith earliest violets 
Andlavish carol of clear-throatedlarks 
Fill'd all the INIarch of life ! — I will 

not speak of thee. 
These have not seen thee, these can 

never know thee. 
They cannot understand me. Pass 

we then 
A term of eighteen years. Ye would 

but laugh, 
If I should tell you how I hoard in 

thought 
The faded rhymes and scraps of an- 
cient crones. 
Gray relics of the nurseries of the 

world, 
Which are as gems set in my memory, 
Because she learnt them with me ; or 

what use 
To know her father left us just before 
The daffodil was blown ? or how we 

found 
The dead man cast upon the shore ? 

All this 
Seems to the quiet daylight of your 

minds 
But cloud and smoke, and in the dark 

of mine 
Is traced with flame. Move with me 

to the event. 



There came a glorious morning, 

sucli a one 
As dawns but once a season. Mercury 
On such a morning would have flung 

himself 
From cloud to cloud, and swum with 

balanced wings 
To some tall mountain : when I said 

to her, 
"A day for Gods to stooj)," she an- 
swered. "Ay, 
And men to soar : " for as that other 

gazed, 
Shading his eyes till all the fiery cloud, 
The prophet and the chariot and the 

steeds, 
Suck'd into oneness like a little star 
Were drunk into the inmost blue, we 

stood. 
When first we came from out the 

pines at noon, 
With hands for eaves, uplooking and 

almost 
Waiting to see some blessed shape in 

heaven. 
So bathed we were in brilliance. 

Never yet 
Before or after have I known the 

spring- 
Pour with such sudden deluges of 

light 
Into the middle summer ; for that day 
Love, rising, shook his wings, and 

charged the winds 
AVith spliced May-sweets from bound 

to bound, and blew 
Fresh fire into the sun, and from 

within 
Burst thro' the heated buds, and sent 

his soul 
Into the songs of birds, and touch'd 

far-off 
His mountain-altars, his high hills, 

with flame 
Milder and purer. 

Thro' the rocks we wound : 

The great pine shook with lonely 
sounds of joy 

That came on the sea-wind. As 
mountain streams 

Our blood ran free : the sunshine 
seem'd to brood 

More warmly on the heart than on 
the brow. 

We often paused, and, looking back, 
we saw 

The clefts and openings in the moun- 
tains fiU'd 

With the blue valley and the glisten- 
ing brooks. 

And all the low dark groves, a land 
of love ! 

A land of i^roraise, a land of memory, 

A land of promise flowing with the 
milk 



550 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



And honey of delicious memories ! 
And down to sea, and far as eye could 

ken, 
Each way from verge to verge a Holy 

Land, 
Still growing holier as you near'd the 

bay. 
For there the Temple stood. 

When we had reach'd 
The grassy platform on some hill, I 

stoop'd, 
I gather'd the wild herbs, and for her 

brows 
And mine made garlands of the self- 
same flower, 
Which she took smiling, and with my 

work thus 
Crown'd her clear forehead. Once or 

twice she told me 
(For I remember all things) to let grow 
The flowers that run poison in their 

veins. 
She said, "The evil flourish in the 

world." 
Then playfully she gave herself the 

lie — 
" Nothing in nature is unbeautif ul ; / 
So, brotlier, pluck and spare not." 

So I wove 
Ev'n the dull-blooded poppy-stem, 

" whose flower, 
Hued with the scarlet of a fierce sun- 
rise, 
Like to the wild youth of an evil prince, 
Is without sweetness, but who crowns 

himself 
Above the naked poisons of his heart 
In his old age." A graceful thought 

of hers 
Grav'n on my fancy ! And oh, how 

like a nymph, 
A statelj'' mountain nymph she look'd ! 

how native 
Unto the hills she trod on ! While I 

gazed 
My coronal slowly disentwined itself 
And fell between us both ; tho' while 

I gazed 
My spirit leap'd as with those thrills 

of bliss 
That strike across the soul in prayer, 

and show us 
That we are surely heard. Methought 

a light 
Burst from the garland I had wov'n, 

and stood 
A solid glory on her bright black hair ; 
A light methought broke from her 

dark, dark eyes, 
And shot itself into the singing winds ; 
A mystic light flash'd ev'n from her 

white robe 
As from a glass in the sun, and fell 

about 
My footsteps on the mountains. 



Last we came 
To what our people call " The Hill of 

Woe." 
A bridge is there, that, look'd at from 

beneath 
Seems but a cobweb filament to link 
The yawning of an earthquake-cloven 

chasm. 
And thence one night, when all the 

winds were loud, 
A woful man (for so the story went) 
Had thrust his wife and child and 

dash'd himself 
Into the dizzy de^Jth below. Below, 
Fierce in the strength of far descent, 

a stream 
Flies with a shatter'd foam along the 

chasm. 

Thepath was perilous, loosely strown 

with crags : 
We mounted slowly; yet to both 

there came 
The joy of life in steepness overcome. 
And victories of ascent, and looking 

down 
On all that had look'd down on us ; 

and joy 
In breathing nearer heaven ; and joy 

to me, 
High over all the azure-circled earth, 
To breath with her as if in heaven it- 
self; 
And more than joy that I to her be- 
came 
Her guardian and her angel, raising her 
Still higher, past all peril, until she saw 
Beneath her feet the region far away, 
Beyond the nearest mountain's bosky 

brows, 
Ariseinopen prospect — heath and hill, 
And hollow lined and wooded to the 

lips. 
And deep-down walls of battlemented 

rock 
Gilded with broom, or shatter'd into 

spires. 
And glory of broad waters interfused. 
Whence rose as it were breath and 

steam of gold, 
And over all the great wood rioting 
And climbing, streak'd or starr'd at 

intervals 
With falling brook or blossom'd busli 

— and last, 
Framing the mighty landscape to the 

west, 
A purple range of mountain-cones, 

between 
Whose interspaces gush'd in blinding 

bursts 
The incorporate blaze of sun and sea. 

At length 
Descending from the point and stand- 
ing both, 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



551 



There on the tremulous bridge, that 

from beneath 
Had seem'd a gossamer filament up in 

air, 
We paused amid the splendor. All 

the west 
And ev'n unto the middle south was 

ribb'd 
And barr'd with bloom on bloom. 

The sun below. 
Held for a space 'twixt cloud and 

wave, shower'd down 
Rays of a mighty circle, weaving over 
That various wilderness a tissue of 

light 
Unparallel'd. On the other side, the 

moon, 
Half-melted into thin blue air, stood 

still, 
And pale and fibrous as a wither'd 

leaf, 
Not yet endured in presence of His eyes 
To indue his lustre ; most unloverlike. 
Since in his absence full of light and 

joy, 
And giving light to others. But this 

most. 
Next to her presence whom I loved 

so well. 
Spoke loudly even into my inmost 

heart 
As to my outward hearing : the loud 

stream, 
Forth issuing from his portals in the 

crag 
(A visible link unto the home of my 

heart), 
Ran amber toward the west, and nigh 

the sea 
Parting my own loved mountains was 

received, 
Shorn of its strength, into the sym- 
pathy 
Of that small bay, which out to open 

main 
Glow'd intermingling close beneath 

the sun. 
Spirit of Love ! that little hour was 

bound 
Shut in from Time, and dedicate to 

thee : 
Thy fires from heaven had touch'd it, 

and the earth 
They fell on became hallow'd ever- 
more. 

We turn'd : our eyes met : hers 

Avere bright, and mine 
Were dim with floating tears, that shot 

the sunset 
In lightnings round me ; and my name 

was borne 
Upon her breath. Henceforth my 

name has been 
A hallow'd memory like the names of 

old, 



A center'd, glory-circled memory. 
And a peculiar treasure, brooking 

not 
Exchange or currency: and in that 

hour 
A hope flow'd round me, like a golden 

mist 
Charm'd amid eddiesof melodious airs, 
A moment, ere the onward whirlwind 

shatter it, 
Waver'd and floated — which was less 

than Hope, 
Because it lack'd the power of perfect 

Hope ; 
But which was more and higher than 

all Hope, 
Because all otlier Hope had lower aim ; 
Even that this name to which her 

gracious lips 
Did lend such gentle utterance, this 

one name, 
In some obscure hereafter, might in- 

wreathe 
(How lovelier, nobler then!) her life, 

her love. 
With my life, love, soul, spirit, and 

heart and strength. 

" Brother," she said, " let this be 

call'd henceforth 
The Hill of Hope ; " and I replied, 

"O sister. 
My will is one with thine ; the Hill of 

Hope." 
Nevertheless, we did not change the 

name. 

I did not speak : I could not speak 
my love. 

Love lieth deep : Love dwells not in. 
lip-depths. 

Love wraps his wings on either side 
the heart. 

Constraining it with kisses close and 
warm, 

Absorbing all the incense of sweet 
thoughts 

So that they pass not to the shrine of 
sound. 

Else had the life of that delighted hour 

Drunk in the largeness of the utter- 
ance 

Of Love ; but how should Earthly 
measure mete 

The Heavenly-unmeasured or unlimit- 
ed Love, 

Who scarce can tune his high majestic 
sense 

Unto the thundersong that wheels the 
spheres. 

Scarce living in the JSolian harmony, 

And flowing odor of the spacious air, 

Scarce housed within the circle of this 
Earth, 

Be cabin'd up in words and syllables. 



552 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Which pass with that which breathes 
them 1 Sooner Earth 

Might go round Heaven, and the strait 
girth of Time 

Inswatlie the fulness of Eternity, 

Tlian hmguage grasp the infinite of 
Love. 

O day which did enwomb that happy 

hour, 
Thou art blessed in the years, divinest 

day ! 
O Genius of that hour which dost up- 
hold 
Thy coronal of glory like a God, 
Amid thy melancholy mates far-seen. 
Who walk before thee, ever turning 

round 
To gaze upon thee till their eyes are 

dim 
With dwelling on the light and depth 

of thine, 
Thy name is ever worshipp'd among 

hours ! 
Had I died then, I had not seem'd to 

die. 
For bliss stood round me like the light 

of Heaven, — 
Had I died then, I had not known the 

death ; 
Yea had the Power from whose right 

hand tlie light 
Of Life issueth, and from whose left 

hand floweth 
The Shadow of Deatli, perennial efflu- 
ences, 
Whereof to all that draw the whole- 
some air, 
Somewhile the one must overflow the 

other ; 
Then had he stemm'd my day with 

night, and driven 
My current to the fountain whence it 

sprang, — 
Even his own abiding excellence — 
On me, methinks, that shock of gloom 

had fall'n 
Unf elt, and in this glory I had merged 
The other, like the sun I gazed upon. 
Which seeming for the moment due 

to death. 
And dipping his head low beneath the 

verge, 
Yet bearing round about him his own 

day. 
In confidence of unabated strength, 
Steppeth from Heaven to Heaven, 

from light to light. 
And holdeth his undimmed forehead 

far 
Into a clearer zenith, pure of cloud. 

We trod the shadow of the down- 
ward hill; 
We past from light to dark. On the 
other side 



Is scoop'd a cavern and a mountain 
hall. 

Which none have fathom'd. If you 
go far in 

(The country people rumor) you maj' 
hear 

The moaning of the woman and the 
child. 

Shut in the secret chambers of the 
rock. 

I too have heard a sound — perchance 
of streams 

Running far on within its inmost 
halls. 

The home of darkness ; but the cav- 
ern-mouth. 

Half overtraded with a wanton weed. 

Gives birth to a brawling brook, that 
passing lightly 

Adown a natural stair of tangled roots. 

Is presently received in a sweet grave 

Of eglantines, a place of burial 

Far lovelier than its cradle ; for un- 
seen, 

But taken with the sweetness of the 
place. 

It makes a constant bubbling melody 

That drowns the nearer echoes. Low- 
er down 

Spreads out a little lake, that, fiood- 
ing, leaves 

Low banks of yellow sand ; and from 
the woods 

That belt it rise three dark, tall c}*- 
presses, — 

Three cypresses, symbols of mortal 
woe, 

That men plant over graves. 

Hither we came, 

And sitting down upon the golden 
moss, 

Held converse sweet and low — low 
converse sweet. 

In which our voices bore least part. 
The wind 

Told a lovetale beside us, how he woo'd 

The waters, and the waters answering 
lisp'd 

To kisses of the wind, that, sick with 
love. 

Fainted at intervals, and grew again 

To utterance of passion. Ye cannot 
shape 

Fancy so fair as is this memory. 

]\Iethought all excellence that ever was 

Had drawn herself from many thou- 
sand years. 

And all the separate Edens of this 
earth. 

To centre in this place and time. I 
listen'd. 

And her words stole with most pre- 
vailing sweetness 

Into my heart, as thronging fancies 
come 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



553 



To boys and girls when summer days 

are new, 
And soul and heart and body are all 

at ease : 
What marvel my Camilla told me all ? 
It was so happy an hour, so sweet a 

place, 
And I was as the brother of her blood, 
And by that name I moved upon her 

breath ; 
Dear name, which had too much of 

nearness in it 
And heralded the distance of this time! 
At first her voice was very sweet and 

low. 
As if she were afraid of utterance ; 
But in the onward current of laer 

speech, 
(As echoes of the hollow-banked 

brooks 
Are fashion'd by the channel which 

they keep). 
Her words did of their meaning bor- 
row sound, 
Her cheek did catch the color of her 

words. 
I heard and trembled, yet I could but 

hear ; 
My heart paused — my raised eyelids 

would not fall. 
But still I ke^Jt my ej'es upon the sky. 
I seem'd the only part of Time stood 

still, 
And saw the motion of all other things ; 
While her words, syllable by syllable, 
Like water, droi) by drop, upon my 

ear 
Fell ; and I wish'd, yet wish'd her not 

to speak ; 
But she spake on, for I did name no 

wish. 
What marvel my Camilla told me all 
Her maiden dignities of Hope and 

Love — 
"Perchance," she said, " return'd." 

Even then the stars 
Did tremble in their stations as Igazed; 
But she spake on, for I did name no 

wish. 
No wish — no hope. Hope was not 

wholly dead, 
But breathing hard at the approach 

of Death, — 
Camilla, my Camilla, who was mine 
No longer in the dearest senseof mine — 
For all the secret of her inmost heart. 
And all the maiden empire of her 

mind. 
Lay like a map before me, and I saw 
There, where I hoped myself to reign 

as king. 
There, where that day I crown'd my- 
self as king, 
There in my realm and even on my 
' throne. 

Another ! then it seem'd as tho' a link 



Of some tight chain within iny inmost 

frame 
Was riven in twain : that life I heeded 

not 
Flow'd from me, and the darkness of 

the grave. 
The darkness of the grave and utter 

night. 
Did swallow tip my vision ; at her feet. 
Even the feet of her I loved, 1 fell, 
Smit with exceeding sprrow unto 

Death. 

Then had the earth beneath me 

yawing cloven 
With such a sound as when an iceberg 

splits 
From cope to base — had Heaven from 

all her doors. 
With all her golden thresholds clash- 
ing, roU'd 
Her heaviest thunder — I had lain as 

dead. 
Mute, blind and motionless as then I 

lay ; 
Dead, for henceforth there was no life 

for me ! 
Mute, for henceforth what use were 

words to me ! 
Blind, for the day was as the night to 

me ! 
The night to me was kinder than the 

dny ; 
The night in pity took away my day. 
Because my grief as yet was newly 

born 
Of eyes too weak to look upon the 

light ; 
And thro' the hasty notice of the ear 
Frail Life was startled from the ten- 
der love 
Of him she brooded over. Would I 

had lain 
Until the plaited ivy-tress had wound 
Bound my worn limbs, and the wild 

brier had driven 
Its knotted thorns thro' my unpain- 

ing brows. 
Leaning its roses on my faded eyes. 
The wind had blown above me, and 

the rain 
Had fall'n upon me, and the gilded 

snake 
Had nestled in this bosom-throne of 

Love, 
But I had been at rest for evermore. 

Long time entrancement held me. 

All too soon 
Life (like a wanton too-officious friend, 
W^ho will not hear denial, vain and 

rude 
With proffer of unwish'd-for services) 
Entering all the avenues of sense 
Past thro' into his citadel, the brain, 



554 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



With hated warmth of apprehensive- 

ness. 
And first the chillness of the sprinkled 

broolc 
Smote on my brows, and then I seem'd 

to hear 
Its murmur, as the drowning seaman 

hears, 
Who with his head beloW tlie surface 

dropt 
Listens the jnufHed booming indistinct 
Of the confused floods, and dimly knows 
His head shall rise no more : and then 

came in 
The white light of the weary moon 

above. 
Diffused and molten into flaky cloud. 
Was my sight drunk that it did shape 

to me 
Him who should own that name? Were 

it not well 
If so be that the echo of that name 
Ringing within the fancy had updrawn 
A fashion and a phantasm of the 

form 
It should attach to 1 Phantom ! — 

had the ghastliest 
That ever lusted for a body, sucking 
The foul steam of the grave to thicken 

by it. 
There in the shuddering moonlight 

brought its face 
And what it has for eyes as close to 

mine 
As he did — better that than his, than 

he 
The friend, the neighbor, Lionel, the 

beloved, 
The loved, the lover, the happy Lionel, 
The low-voiced, tender-spirited Lionel, 
All joy, to whom my agony was a joy. 
O how her choice did leap forth from 

his eyes ! 
O how her love did clothe itself in 

smiles 
About liis lijis ! and — not one mo- 
ment's grace — 
Then when the effect weigh'd seas 

upon my head 
To come my way ! to twit me with the 

cause ! 

Was not the land as free thro' all 

her ways 
To him as me ? Was not his wont to 

walk 
Between the going light and growing 

night? 
Had I not learnt my loss before he 

came 1 
Could that be more because he came 

my way ? 
Why should he not come my way if 

he would ? 
And yet to-night, to-night — when all 

my wealth 



Flash'd from me in a moment and I 

fell 
Beggar'd for ever — why should he 

come my way 
Robed in those robes of light I must 

not wear. 
With that great crown of beams about 

his brows — 
Come like an angel to a damned 

soul. 
To tell him of the bliss he had with 

God — 
Come like a careless and a greedy 

heir 
That scarce can wait the reading of 

the will 
Before he takes possession ? Was 

mine a mood 
To be invaded rudely, and not rather 
A sacred, secret imapproached woe. 
Unspeakable ? I was shut up with 

Grief ; 
She took the body of my past delight, 
Narded and swathed and balm'd it 

for herself. 
And laid it in a sepulchre of rock 
Never to rise again. I was led mute 
Into her temple like a sacrifice ; 
I was the High Priest in her holiest 

place. 
Not to be loudly broken in upon. 

Oh friend, thoughts deep and heavy 

as these well-nigh 
O'erbore the limits of my brain : but he 
Bent o'er me, and my neck his arm 

upstay'd. 
I thought it was an adder's fold, and 

once 
I strove to disengage myself, but 

fail'd. 
Being so feeble : she bent above me, 

too; 
Wan was her cheek; for whatsoe'er 

of blight 
Lives in the dewy touch of pity had 

made 
The red rose there a pale one — and 

her eyes — 
I saw the moonlight glitter on their 

tears — 
And some few drops of that distress- 
ful rain 
Fell on my face, and her long ringlets 

moved. 
Drooping and beaten by the breeze, 

and brush'd 
My fallen forehead in their to and 

fro, 
For in the sudden anguish of her heart 
Loosed from their simple thrall they 

had flow'd abroad, 
And floated on and parted round her 

neck, 
Mantling her form halfway. She, 

when I woke, 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



555 



Something she ask'd, I know not what, 

and ask'd, 
Unanswer'd, since I spake not; for 

the sound 
Of that dear voice so musically low, 
And now first lieard with any sense 

of pain. 
As it had taken life away before. 
Choked all the syllables, that strove 

to rise 
From my full heart. 

The blissful lover, too. 
From his great hoard of happiness 

distill'd 
Some drops of solace ; like a vain 

rich man, 
That, having always prosper'd in the 

world. 
Folding his hands, deals comfortable 

words 
To hearts wounded for ever ; yet, in 

truth. 
Fair speech was his and delicate of 

phrase. 
Falling in Avhispers on the sense, ad- 

dress'd 
More to the inward than the outward 

ear. 
As rain of the midsummer midnight 

soft. 
Scarce-heard, recalling fragrance and 

the green 
Of the dead spring : but mine was 

wholh^ dead. 
No bud, no leaf, no flower, no fruit 

for me. 
Yet who had done, or who had suifer'd 

wrong ^ 
And why was I to darken their pure 

love. 
If, as I found, they two did love each 

other. 
Because my own was darken'd ? Why 

was I 
To cross between their happy star and 

them ? 
To stand a shadow by their shining 

doors. 
And vex them with my darkness 1 

Did I love her 1 
Ye know that I did love her ; to this 

present 
My fuU-orb'd love has waned not. 

Did I love her, 
And could I look upon her tearful 

eyes? 
What had &he done to weep 1 Why 

should she weep ? 
O innocent of spirit — let my heart 
Break rather — whom the gentlest 

airs of Heaven 
Should kiss with an unwonted gentle- 
ness. 
Her love did murder mine 1 What 

then ? She deem'd 



I wore a brother's mind : she call'd 

me brother : 
She told me all her love : she shall 

not weep. 

The brightness of a burning thought, 

awhile 
In battle with the glooms of my dark 

will. 
Moonlike emerged, and to itself lit up 
There on the depth of an unfathom'd 

woe 
Reflex of action. Starting up at once, 
As from a dismal dream of my own 

death, 
I, for I loved her, lost my love in 

Love; 
I, for I loved her, graspt the hand she 

lov'd. 
And laid it in her own, and sent my 

cry 
Thro' the blank night to Him who 

loving made 
The happy and the unhappy love, 

that He 
Would hold the hand of blessing over 

them, 
Lionel, the happy, and her, and her, 

his bride ! 
Let them so love that men and boys 

may say, 
" Lo ! how they love each other ! " till 

their love 
Shall ripen to a proverb, unto all 
Known, when their faces are forgot in 

the land — 
One golden dream of love, from which 

may death 
Awake them with heaven's music in a 

life 
More living to some happier happi- 
ness. 
Swallowing its precedent in victory. 
And as for me, Camilla, as for me, — 
The dew of tears is an unwholesome 

dew. 
They will but sicken the sick plant 

the more. 
Deem that I love thee but as brothers 

do. 
So shalt thou love me still as sisters 

do; 
Or if thou dream aught farther, 

dream but how 
I could have loved thee, had there 

been none else 
To love as lovers, loved again by 

thee. 

Or this, or somewhat like to this, I 
spake. 

When I beheld her weep so rue- 
fully ; 

For sure my love should ne'er indue 
the front 



556 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



And mask of Hate, who lives on 

others' moans. 
Shall Love pledge Hatred in her bit- 
ter draughts, 
And batten on her poisons % Love 

forbid ! 
Love passeth not the threshold of cold 

Hate, 
And Hate is strange beneath the roof 

of Love. 
O Love, if thou be'st Love, dry up 

these tears 
Shed for the love of Love ; for tho' 

mine image. 
The subject of tliy power, be cold in 

her, 
Yet, like cold snow, it melteth in the 

source 
Of these sad tears, and feeds their 

downward flow. 
So Love, arraign'd to judgment and 

to deatli, 
Received unto himself a part of 

blame, 
Being guiltless, as an innocent pri- 
soner, 
Who, when the woful sentence hath 

been past. 
And all the clearness of his fame hath 

gone 
Beneath the shadow of the curse of 

man. 
First falls asleep in swoon, wherefrom 

awaked. 
And looking round upon his tearful 

friends, 
Forthwith and in his agony con- 
ceives 
A shameful sense as of a cleaving 

crime — 
For whence without some guilt should 

such grief be ? 

So died that hour, and fell into the 
abysm 

Of forms outworn, but not to me out- 
worn. 

Who never hail'd another — was there 
one % 

There might be one — one other, worth 
the life 

That made it sensible. So that horn- 
died 

Like odor rapt into the winged 
wind 

Borne into alien lands and far away. 

There be some hearts so airily built, 

that they. 
They — when their love is wreck'd — 

if Love can wreck — 
On that sharp ridge of utmost doom 

ride highly 
Above the perilous seas of Change 

and Chance ; 



Xay, more, hold out the lights of 

cheerfulness ; 
As the tall ship, that many a dreary 

year 
Knit to some dismal sandbank far at 

sea, 
All thro' the livelong hours of utter 

dark, 
Showers slanting light upon the dolor- 
ous wave. 
For me — what light, what gleam on 

those black ways 
Where Love could walk with banish'd 

Hope no more ? 

It was ill-done to part you, Sisters 

fair ; 
Love's arms were wreath'd about the 

neck of Hope, 
And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love 

drew in her breath 
In that close kiss, and drank her 

whisper'd tales. 
They said that Love would die when 

Hope was gone. 
And Love mourn'd long, and sorrow'd 

after Hope ; 
At last she sought out Memory, and 

they trod 
The same old paths where Love had 

walk'd with Hope, 
And Memory fed the soul of Love 

with tears. 

II. 

From that time forth I would not see 

her more ; 
But many weary moons I lived 

alone — 
Alone, and in the heart of the great 

forest. 
Sometimes upon the hills beside the 

sea 
All day I watch'd the floating isles of 

shade. 
And sometimes on the shore, upon the 

sands 
Insensibly I drew her name, until 
The meaning of the letters shot into 
My brain ; anon the wanton billow 

wash'd 
Them over, till they faded like my 

love. 
The hollow caverns heard me — the 

black brooks 
Of the midf orest heard me — the soft 

winds, 
Laden with thistledown and seeds of 

flowers. 
Paused in their course to hear me, for 

my voice 
Was all of thee : the merry linnet 

knew me, 
The squirrel knew me, and the dragon- 

fly 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



557 



Shot by me like a flash of purple fire. 
The rough brier tore my bleeding 

palms ; the hemlock, 
Brow-high, did strike my forehead as 

I past ; 
Yet trod I not the wildflower in my 

path, 
Nor bruised the wildbird's egg. 

Was this the end 1 
Why grew we then together in one 

plot 2 
Why fed we from one fountain ? drew 

one sun '\ 
Why were our mothers' branches of 

one stem \ 
Why were we one in all things, save 

in that 
Where to have been one had been the 

cope and crown 
Of all I hoped and fear'd 1 — if that 

same nearness 
Were father to this distance, and that 

one 
Vauntcourier to the double ? if Affec- 
tion 
Living slew Love, and Sympathy 

hew'd out 
The bosom-sepulchre of Sympathy "? 

Chiefly I sought the cavern and the 
hill 

Where last we roam'd together, for the 
sound 

Of the loud stream was pleasant, and 
the wind 

Came wooingly with woodbine smells. 
Sometimes 

All day I sat within the cavern-mouth, 

Fixing mj' eyes on those three cypress- 
cones 

That spired above the wood ; and with 
mad hand 

Tearing the bright leaves of the ivy- 
screen, 

I cast them in the noisy brook be- 
neath, 

And watch'd them till they vanish'd 
from my sight 

Beneath the bower of wreathed eglan- 
tines : 

And all the fragments of the living 
rock 

(Huge blocks, which some old trem- 
bling of the world 

Had loosen'd from the mountain, till 
they fell 

Half-digging their own graves) these 
in my agony 

Did I make bare of all the golden 
moss. 

Wherewith the dashing runnel in the 
spring 

Had liveried them all over. In my 
brain 



The spirit seem'd to flag from thought 

to thought, 
As moonlight wandering thro' a mist : 

my blood 
Crept like marsh drains thro' all my 

languid limbs ; 
The motions of my heart seem'd far 

within me, 
Unfrequent, low, as tho' it told its 

pulses ; 
And yet it shook me, that my frame 

would shudder, 
As if 'twere drawn asunder by the 

rack. 
But over the deep graves of Hope and 

Fear, 
And all the broken palaces of the 

Past, 
Brooded one master-passion evermore. 
Like to a low-hung and a fiery sky 
Above some fair metropolis, earth- 

shock'd, — 
Hung round with ragged rims and 

burning folds, — 
Embathing all with wild and woful 

hues. 
Great hills of ruins, and collapsed 

masses 
Of thundershaken columns indistinct, 
And fused together in the tyrannous 

light — 
Ruins, the ruin of all my life and me ! 

Sometimes I thought Camilla was 
no more, 

Some one had told me she was dead, 
and ask'd 

If I would see her burial : then I seem'd 

To rise, and through the forest-shadow 
borne 

With more than mortal swiftness, I 
ran down 

The steepy sea-bank, till I came upon 

The rear of a procession, curving round 

The silver-sheeted bay : in front of 
which 

Six stately virgins, all in white, upbear 

A broad earth-sweeping pall of whitest 
lawn. 

Wreathed round the bier with gar- 
lands : in the distance. 

From out the yellow woods upon the 
hill 

Look'd forth the summit and the pin- 
nacles 

Of a gray steeple — thence at intervals 

A low bell tolling. All the pageantry. 

Save those six virgins which ui^held 
the bier, 

Were stoled from head to foot in flow- 
ing black ; 

One walk'd abreast with me, and veil'd 
his brow. 

And he was loud in weeping and in 
praise 

Of her we f ollow'd : a strong sympathy 



558 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Shook all my soul: I flung myself 
upon him 

In tears and cries : I told him all my 
love, 

How I had loved her from the first ; 
whereat 

He shrank and howl'd, and from his 
brow drew back 

His hand to push me from him ; and 
the face, 

The very face and form of Lionel 

Flash'd thro' my eyes into my inner- 
most brain. 

And at his feet I seem'd to faint and 
fall, 

To fall and die away. I could not rise 

Albeit I strove to follow. They past 
on, 

The lordly Phantasms ! in their float- 
ing folds 

They past and were no more : but I 
had fallen 

Prone by the dashing runnel on the 
grass. 

Alway the inaudible invisible 
thought, 

Artificer and subject, lord and slave. 

Shaped by the audible and visible, 

Moulded the audible and visible ; 

All crisped sounds of wave and leaf 
and wind, 

Flatter'd the fancy of my fading brain; 

The cloud-pavilion'd element, the 
wood. 

The mountain, the three cypresses, the 
cave. 

Storm, sunset, glows and glories of 
the moon 

Below black firs, when silent-creeping 
winds 

Laid the long night in silver streaks 
and bars. 

Were wrought into the tissue of my 
dream : 

The meanings in the forest, the loud 
brook, 

Cries of the partridge like a rusty key 

Turn'd in a lock, owl-whoop and dor- 
hawk-whirr 

Awoke me not, but were a part of 
sleep. 

And voices in thedistance calling to me 

And in my vision bidding me dream on. 

Like sounds without the twilight realm 
of dreams. 

Which wander round the bases of the 
hills. 

And murmur at the low-dropt eaves 
of sleep. 

Half-entering the portals. Oftentimes 

The vision had fair prelude, in the end 

Opening on darkness, stately vesti- 
bules 

To caves and shows of Death : wheth- 
er the mind, 



Witli some revenge — even to itself 

unknown, — 
Made strange division of its suffering 
With her, whom to have sufTering 

view'd had been 
Extremest pain ; or that the clear-eyed 

Spirit, 
Being blunted in the Present, grew at 

length 
Prophetical and prescient of whate'er 
The Future had in store : or that 

which most 
Enchains belief, the sorrow of my 

spirit 
Was of so wide a compass it took in 
All I had loved, and my dull agony. 
Ideally to her transforr'd, became 
Anguish intolerable. 

The day waned ; 
Alone I sat with her : about my 

brow 
Her warm breath floated in the utter- 
ance 
Of silver-chorded tones : her lips 

were sunder'd 
With smiles of tranquil bliss, which 

broke in light 
Like morning from her eyes — her 

eloquent eyes, 
(As I have seen them many a hundred 

times) 
Fill'd all with pure clear fire, thro' 

mine down rain'd 
Their spirit-searching splendors. As 

a vision 
Unto .a haggard prisoner, iron-sta3''d 
In damp and dismal dungeons under- 
ground, 
Confined on points of faith, when 

strength is shock'd 
With torment, and expectancy of 

worse 
LTpon the morrow, thro' the ragged 

walls, 
All unawares before his half- shut 

eyes, 
Comes in upon him in the dead of 

night. 
And with the excess of sweetness and 

of awe. 
Makes the heart tremble, and the 

sight run over 
Upon his steely gyves ; so those fair 

eyes 
Shone on my darkness, forms which 

ever stood 
Within the magic cirque of memory. 
Invisible but deathless, waiting still 
The edict of the will to reassume 
The semblance of those rare realities 
Of which they were the mirrors. Now 

the liglit 
Which was tlieir life, burst through 

the cloud of thought 
Keen, irrepressible. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



559 



It was a room 
Within the summer-house of which I 

spake, 
Hung round with paintings of the sea, 

and one 
A vessel in mid-ocean, her heaved 

prow 
Clambering, the mast bent and the 

ravin wind 
In her sail roaring. From the outer 

day, 
Betwixt the close-set ivies came a 

broad 
And solid beam of isolated light, 
Crowded with driving atomies, and 

fell 
Slanting upon that picture, from prime 

youth 
Well-known well-loved. She drew it 

long ago 
Forthgazing on the waste and open 

sea, 
One morning when tlie upblown bil- 
low ran 
Shoreward beneath red clouds, and I 

had pour'd 
Into the shadowing pencil's naked 

forms 
Color and life : it was a bond and seal 
Of friendship, spoken of with tearful 

smiles ; 
A monument of childhood and of 

love ; 
The poesy of childhood ; my lost love 
Symbol'd in storm. We gazed on it 

together 
In mute and glad remembrance, and 

each heart 
Grew closer to the other, and the eye 
Was riveted and charm-bound, gazing 

like 
The Indian on a still-eyed snake, low- 

couch'd — 
A beauty which is death ; when all at 

once 
That painted vessel, as M'ith inner 

life. 
Began to heave ujion that painted sea ; 
An earthquake, my loud heart-beats, 

made the ground 
Reel under us, and all at once, soul, 

life 
And breath and motion, past and 

flow'd away 
To those unreal billows : round and 

round 
A whirlwind caught and bore us ; 

mighty gyres 
Rapid and vast, of hissing spray wind- 
driven 
Far thro' the dizzy dark. Aloud she 

shriek'd ; 
My heart was cloven with pain ; I 

wound my arms 
About her: we whirl'd giddily; the 

wind 



Sung ; but I clasp'd her without fear : 

her weight 
Shrank in my grasp, and over my dim 

eyes. 
And ])arted lips which drank her 

breath, down-hung 
The jaws of Death : I, groaning, from 

me Hung 
Her empty phantom : all the sway and 

whirl 
Of the storm dropt to windless calm, 

and I 
Down welter'd thro' the dark ever and 

ever. 

III. 

I CAME one day and sat among the 
stones 

Strewn in the entry of the moaning 
cave ; 

A morning air, sweet after rain, ran 
over 

The rippling levels of the lake, and 
blew 

Coolness and moisture and all smells 
of bud 

And foliage from the dark and drip- 
ping woods 

Upon my fever'd brows that shook 
and throbb'd 

From temple unto temple. To what 
lieight 

The day had grown I know not. Then 
came on me 

The hollow tolling of the bell, and all 

The vision of tlie bier. As heretofore 

I walk'd beliind with one who veil'd 
his brow. 

Methought by slow degrees the sullen 
bell 

ToU'd quicker, and the breakers on the 
sliore 

Sloped into louder surf : those that 
went with me. 

And those that held the bier before 
my face. 

Moved with one spirit round about 
the bay. 

Trod swifter steps ; and while I walk'd 
with these 

In marvel at tliat gradual change, I 
thought 

Four bells instead of one began to 
ring, 

Four merry bells, four merrv marriage- 
bells, 

In clanging cadence jangling peal on 
lu-al — 

A long loud clash of rapid marriage- 
bells. 

Then those who led the van, and those 
in rear, 

Rush'd into dance, and like wild Bac- 
chanals 

Fled onward to the steeple in the 
woods : 



560 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



I, too, was borne along and felt the 

blast 
Beat on my heated eyelids : all at 

once 
The front rank made a sudden halt ; 

the bells 
Lapsed into frightful stillness ; the 

surge fell 
From thunder into whispers ; those six 

maids 
With shrieks and ringing laughter on 

the sand 
Threw down the bier ; the woods ujion 

the hill 
Waved witli a sudden gust that sweep- 
ing down 
Took the edges of the pall, and blew 

it far 
Until it hung, a little silver cloud 
Over tlie sounding seas : I turn'd : my 

heart 
Shrank in me, like a snowflake in the 

hand. 
Waiting to see the settled countenance 
Of her I loved, adorn'd with fading 

flowers. 
But she from out her death-like 

chrysalis. 
She from her bier, as into fresher 

life. 
My sister, and my cousin, and my 

love, 
Leapt lightly clad in bridal white — 

her hair 
Studded with one rich Provence rose 

— a light 
Of smiling welcome round her lips — 

her eyes 
And cheeks as bright as when she 

climb'd the hill. 
One hand she reach'd to those that 

came behind, 
And while I mused nor yet endured 

to take 
So rich a prize, the man who stood 

with me 
Stept gaily forward, throwing down 

his robes. 
And claspt her hand in his : again the 

bells 
Jangled and clang'd ; again the stormy 

surf 
Crash'd in the shingle : and the whirl- 
ing rout 
Led by tliose two rush'd into dance, 

and fled 
Wind-footed to the steeple in the 

woods. 
Till they were swallow'd in the leafy 

bowers, 
And I stood sole beside the vacant 

bier. 

There, there, my latest vision — then 
the event ! 



IV. 

THE GOLDEN SUPPER.^ 

( An other speaks.) 

He flies the event : he leaves the event 

to me : 
Poor Julian — how he rush'd away; 

the bells. 
Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear 

and heart — 
But cast a parting glance at me, you 

saw, 
As who should say " Continue." Well 

he liad 
One golden hour — of triumph shall I 

say? 
Solace at least — before he left his 

home. 

Would you had seen him in that 
hour of his ! 

He moved thro' all of it majesti- 
cally — 

Eestrain'd himself quite to the close — 
but now — 

Whether they toere his lady's mar- 
riage bells. 
Or prophets of them in his fantasy, 
I never ask'd : but Lionel and the girl 
Were wedded, and our Julian came 

again 
Back to his mother's house among the 

pines. 
But these, tlieir gloom, the mountains 

and the Bay, 
The whole land weigh'd him down as 

^Etna does 
The Giant of Mythology : he would 

go. 
Would leave the land for ever, and 

had gone 
Surely, but for a whisper, " Go not 

yet," 

Some warning — sent divinely — as it 

seem'd 
By that which f ollow'd — but of this 

I deem 
As of the visions that he told — the 

event 
Glanced back upon them in his after 

life. 
And partly made them — tho' he knew 

it not. 

And thus he stay'd and would not 

look at her — 
No not for months : but, when the 

eleventh moon 
After their marriage lit the lover's Baj^, 
Heard yet once more the tolling bell, 

and said, 

1 This poem is founded upon <i story in 
Boccaccio. See Introduction, p. 545. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



561 



Would you could toll me out of life, 

but found — 
All sof ily as his mother broke it to 

him — 
A crueller reason than a crazy ear, 
For that low knell tolling his lady 

dead — 
Dead — and had lain three days with- 
out a pulse : 
All thatlook'd on her had i^ronounced 

her dead. 
And so they bore her (for in Julian's 

land 
They never nail a dumb head up in 

elm), 
Bore her free-faced to the free airs of 

heaven, 
And laid her in the vault of her own 

kin. 

What did he then ? not die : he is 

here and hale — 
Not plunge headforemost from the 

mountain there. 
And leave the name of Lover's Leap : 

not he : 
He knew the meaning of the whisper 

now, 
Thought that he knew it. " This, I 

stay'd for this ; 

love, I have not seen you for so 

long. 
Now, now, will I go down into the 
grave, 

1 will be all alone with all I love, 
And kiss her on the lips. She is his 

no more : 
The dead returns to me, and I go down 
To kiss the dead." 

The fancy stirr'd him so 
He rose and went, and entering the 

dim vault. 
And, making there a sudden light, be- 
held 
All round about him that which all 

will be. 
The light was but a flash, and went 

again. 
Then at the far end of the vault he saw 
His lady with the moonlight on her 

face; 
Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars 
Of black and bands of silver, which 

the moon 
Struck from an open grating overhead 
High in the wall, and all the rest of 

her 
Drown'd in the gloom and horror of 

the vault. 

" It was my wish," he said, " to pass, 
to sleep, 
To rest, to be with her — till the great 
day 



Peal'd on us with that music which 

rights all, 
And raised us hand in hand." And 

kneeling there 
Down in the dreadful dust that once 

was man, 
Dust, as he said, that once was loving 

hearts. 
Hearts that had beat with such a love 

as mine — 
Not such as mine, no, nor for such as 

her — 
He softly put his arm about her neck 
And kiss'd her more than once, till 

helpless death 
And silence made him bold — nay, but 

I wrong him, 
He reverenced his dear lady even in 

death ; 
But, placing his true hand upon her 

heart, 
" 0, you warm heart," he moan'd, 

" not even death 
Can chill you all at once : " then start- 
ing, thought 
His dreams had come again. " Do I 

wake or sleep 1 
Or am I made immortal, or my love 
Mortal once more ? " It beat — the 

heart — it beat : 
Faint — but it beat : at which his own 

began 
To pulse with such a vehemence that 

it drown'd 
The feebler motion underneath his 

hand. 
But when at last his doubts were sat- 
isfied. 
He raised her softly from the sepul- 
chre. 
And, wrapping her all over with the 

cloak 
He came in, and now striding fast, and 

now 
Sitting awhile to rest, but evermore 
Holding his golden burthen in his 

arms, 
So bore her thro' the solitary land 
Back to the mother's house where she 

was born. 

There the good mother's kindly min- 
istering. 
With half a night's appliances, recall'd 
Her fluttering life : she rais'd an eye 

that ask'd 
" AYhere ? " till the things familiar to 

her 3'outh 
Had made a silent answer : then she 

spoke 
" Here ! and how came I here ? " and 

learning it 
(They told her somewhat rashly as I 

think) 
At once began to wander and to 

wail, 



562 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



" Ay, but you know that you must give 

me back : 
Send ! bid him come ; " but Lionel 

was away — 
Stung by his loss had vanish'd, none 

knew where. 
"He casts me out," she wept, " and 

goes " — a wail 
That seeming something, yet was noth- 
ing, born 
Not from believing mind, but shatter'd 

nerve. 
Yet haunting Julian, as her own re- 
proof 
At some precipitance in her burial. 
Then, when her own true spirit had 

return'd, 
" Oh yes, and you," she said, " and 

none but you ? 
For you have given me life and love 

again. 
And none but you yourself shall tell 

him of it. 
And you shall give me back when he 

returns." 
" Stay tlien a little," answer'd Julian, 

" here. 
And keep yourself, none knowing, to 

yourself ; 
And I will do your will. I may not stay. 
No, not an hour ; but send me notice 

of him 
When he returns, and then will I re- 
turn, 
And I will make a solemn offering of 

you 
To him you love." And faintly she 

replied, 
" And I will do your will, and none 

shall know." 

Not know ? with such a secret to be 
known. 
But all their house was old and loved 

tliem both. 
And all the house had known the loves 

of both ; 
Had died almost to serve them any 

way, 
And all the land was waste and soli- 
tary : 
And then he rode away ; but after this. 
An hour or two, Camilla's travail came 
Upon her, and that day a boy was born, 
Heir of his face and land, to Lionel. 

And thus our lonely lover rode away. 
And pausing at a hostel in a marsh. 
There fever seized upon him : myself 

was then 
Travelling that land, and meant to 

rest an hour ; 
And sitting down to such a base repast, 
It makes me angry yet to speak of it — 
I heard a groaning overhead, and 

climb'd 



The moulder'd stairs (for everything 
was vile) 

And in a loft, with none to wait on 
him. 

Found, as it seem'd, a skeleton alone, 

Eaving of dead men's dust and beat- 
ing hearts. 

A dismal hostel in a dismal land, 
A flat malarian world of reed and rush ! 
But there from fever and my care of 

him 
Sprang up a friendship that may help 

us yet. 
For while we roam'd along the drear}' 

coast. 
And waited for her message, piece by 

piece 
I learnt the dearier storj^ of his life ; 
And, tho' he loved and honor'd Lionel, 
Found that the sudden wail his lady 

made 
Dwelt in his fancy : did he know lier 

worth. 
Her beauty even ? should he not be 

taught, 
Ev'n by tlie price that others set upon it. 
The value of that jewel he had to 

guard ? 

Suddenly came her notice and we 
past, 
I with our lover to his native Bay. 

This love is of the brain, the mind, 

the soul : 
That makes the sequel pure ; tho' 

some of us 
Beginning at the sequel know no more. 
Not such am I : and yet I say the bird 
That will not hear my call, however 

sweet, 
But if my neighbor whistle answers 

him — 
What matter 1 there are others in the 

wood. 
Yet when I saw her (and I thought him 

crazed, 
Tho' not with such a craziness as needs 
A cell and keeper), those dark eyes 

of hers — 
Oh ! such dark eyes ! and not her e.ves 

alone, 
But all from these to where she touch'd 

on earth. 
For such a craziness as Julian's look'd 
No less than one divine apology. 

So sweetly and so modestly' she came 
To greet us, her young hero in her 

arms ! 
" Kiss him," she said. " You gave me 

life again. 
He, but for you, had never seen it once. 
His other father you ! Kiss him, and 

then 
Forgive him, if his name be Julian too." 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



563 



Talk of lost hopes and broken heart ! 

his own 
Sent such a flame into his face, I 

knew 
Some sudden vivid pleasure hit him 

there. 

But he was all the more resolved to 
go, 

And sent at once to Lionel, praying 
him 

By that great love they both had 
borne the dead, 

To come and revel for one hour with 
him 

Before he left the land for evermore ; 

And then to friends — they were not 
many — who lived 

Scatteringly about that lonely land 
of his, 

And bade them to a banquet of fare- 
wells. 

And Julian made a solemn feast : I 

never 
Sat at a costlier ; for all round his hall 
Erom column on to column, as in a 

wood, 
Kot such as here — an equatorial one. 
Great garlands swung and blossom'd ; 

and beneath, 
Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of 

Art, 
Chalice and salver, wines that. Heaven 

knows when. 
Had suck'd the fire of some forgotten 

sun, 
And kept it thro' a hundred years of 

gloom. 
Yet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups 
Where nymph and god ran ever round 

in gold — 
Others of glass as costly — some with 

gems 
Movable and resettable at will, 
And trebling all the rest in value — 

Ah heavens ! 
Why need I tell you all ? — suffice to 

say 
That whatsoever such a house as his, 
And his was old, has in it rare or fair 
Was brought before the guest : and 

they, the guests, 
Wonder'd at some strange light in 

Julian's eyes 
(I told you that he had his golden 

hour), 
And such a feast, ill-suited as it seem'd 
To such a time, to Lionel's loss and his 
And that resolved self-exile from a 

land 
He never would revisit, such a feast 
So rich, so strange, and stranger ev'n 

tlian rich. 
But rich as for the nuntials of a king. 



And stranger yet, at one end of the 

hall 
Two great funereal curtains, looping 

down. 
Parted a little ere they met the floor. 
About a picture of his lady, taken 
Some years before, and falling hid the 

frame. 
And just above the parting was a 

lamp : 
So the sweet figure folded round with 

night 
Seem'd stepping out of darkness with 

a smile. 

Well then — our solemn feast — we 

ate and drank. 
And might — the wines being of such 

nobleness — 
Have jested also, but for Julian's eyes. 
And something weird and wild about 

it all : 
What was it ? for our lover seldom 

spoke, 
Scarce touch'd the meats; but ever 

and anon 
A priceless goblet with a priceless wine 
Arising, show'd he drank beyond his 

use ; 
And when the feast was near an end, 

he said : 

" There is a custom in the Orient, 
friends — 
I read of it in Persia — when a man 
Will honor those who feast with him, 

he brings 
And shows them M'hatsoever he ac- 
counts 
Of all his treasures the most beautiful. 
Gold, jewels, arms, whatever it may be. 
This custom " 

Pausing here a moment, all 
The guests broke in upon lum with 

meeting hands 
And cries about the banquet — " Beau- 
tiful ! 
Who could desire more beauty at a 
feast ? " 

The lover answer'd, " There is more 

than one 
Here sitting who desires it. Laud me 

not 
Before my time, but hear me to the 

close. 
This custom steps yet further when 

the guest 
Is loved and honor'd to the uttermost. 
For after he hath shown him gems or 

gold. 
He brings and sets before him in rich 

guise 
That which is thrice as beautiful as 

these. 



564 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



The beauty that is clearest to his 

heart — 
'O my heart's lord, would I could 

show you,' he says, 
'Ev'n my heart too.' And T propose 

to-night 
To show 30U what is dearest to my 

heart, 
And my heart too. 

" But solve me first a doubt. 
I knew a man, nor nuiny years ago ; 
He had a faithful servant, one who 

loved 
His master more than all on earth 

beside. 
He falling sick, and seeming close on 

death. 
His master would not wait until he 

died. 
But bade his menials bear him from 

the door. 
And leave him in the public way to 

die. 
I knew another, not so long ago. 
Who found the dying servant, took 

him home, 
And fed, and cherish'd him, and saved 

his life. 
I ask you now, should this first master 

claim 
His service, whom does it belong to 1 

him 
Who thrust him out, or him who saved 

his life ? " 

This question, so fiung down before 

the guests. 
And balanced either way by each, at 

length 
When some were doubtful how the 

law would hold. 
Was handed over by consent of all 
To one who had not spoken, Lionel. 

Fair speech was his, and delicate of 
phrase. 

And he beginning languidly — his loss 

Weigh'd on hmi yet — but warming 
as he went. 

Glanced at the point of law, to pass 
it by. 

Affirming that as long as either lived. 

By all the laws of love and grateful- 
ness. 

The service of the one so saved was 
due 

All to the saver — adding, with a 
smjle. 

The first for many weeks — a semi- 
smile 

As at a strong conclusion — " body 
and soul 

And life and limbs, all his to work his 
will." 



Tlien Julian made a secret sign to 

me 
To bring Camilla down before them 

all. 
And crossing her own picture as she 

came, 
And looking as much lovelier as her- 
self 
Is lovelier than all others — on her 

head 
A diamond circlet, and from under 

this 
A veil, that seemed no more than 

gilded air. 
Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern 

gauze 
With seeds of gold — so, with that 

grace of hers. 
Slow-moving as a wave against the 

wind. 
That flings a mist behind it in the 

sun — 
And bearing high in arms the mighty 

babe. 
The younger Julian, who himself was 

crown'd 
With roses, none so rosy as himself — 
And over all her babe and her the 

jewels 
Of many generations of his house 
Sparkled and flash'd, for he had 

decked them out 
As for a solemn sacrifice of love — 
So she came in : — I am long in telling 

it, 
I never yet beheld a thing so strange, 
Sad, sweet, and strange together — 

floated in — 
While all the guests in mute amaze- 
ment rose — 
And slowly pacing to the middle 

hall. 
Before the board, there paused and 

stood, her breast 
Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her 

feet. 
Not daring yet to glance at Lionel. 
But him she carried, him nor lights 

nor feast 
Dazed or amazed, nor eyes of men ; 

who cared 
Only to use his own, and staring wide 
And hungering for the gilt and 

jewell'd world 
About him, look'd, as he is like to 

prove. 
When Julian goes, the lord of all he 

saw. 

" My guests," said Julian : " you 
are honor'd now 
Ev'n to the uttermost : in her behold 
Of all my treasures the most beau- 
tiful. 
Of all things upon earth the dearest to 
me." 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



565 



Then waving us a sign to seat our- 
selves, 
Led his dear lady to a chair of state. 
And I, by Lionel sitting, saw his face 
Fire, and dead ashes and all fire again 
Thrice in a second, felt him tremble 

too, 
And heard him muttering, " So like, 

so like ; 
She never had a sister. I knew none. 
Some cousin of his and hers — God, 

so like ! " 
And then he suddenly ask'd her if 

she were. 
She shook, and cast her eyes down, 

and M'as dumb. 
And then some other question'd if she 

came 
From foreign lands, and still she did 

not speak. 
Another, if the boy were hers : but 

she 
To all their queries answer'd not a 

word, 
Which made the amazement more, 

till one of them 
Said, shuddering, "Her spectre!" 

But his friend 
Replied, in half a whisper, " Not at 

least 
The spectre that will speak if spoken 

to. 
Terrible pity, if one so beautiful 
Prove, as I almost dread to find her, 

dumb ! " 

But Julian, sitting bv hei', answer'd 

all: 
" She is but dumb, because in her you 

see 
That faithful servant whom we spoke 

about. 
Obedient to her second master now ; 
Which will not last. I have hei-e to- 
night a guest 
So bound to me by common love and 

loss — 
What ! shall I bind him more ? in his 

behalf. 
Shall I exceed tlie Persian, giving 

him 
That which of all things is the dearest 

to ine. 
Not only showing ■? and he himself 

pronounced 
That my rich gift is wholly mine to 

give. 

" Now all be dumb, and promise all 

of you 
Not to break in on what I say by 

word 
Or whisper, while 1 show you all my 

heart." 
And then began the story of his love 



As here to-day, but not so wordily — 
The passionate moment would not 

suffer that — 
Past thro' his visions to the burial ; 

thence 
Down to this last strange hour in his 

own hall ; 
And then rose up, and with him all 

his guests 
Once more as by enchantment ; all 

but he, 
Lionel, who fain had risen, but fell 

again, 
And sat as if in chains — to whom he 

said : 

" Take my free gift, my cousin, for 

your wife ; 
And were it only for the giver's sake. 
And tho' she seem so like the one you 

lost, 
Yet cast her not awaj- so suddenly. 
Lest there be none left here to bring 

her back : 
I leave this land for ever." Here he 

ceased. 

Then taking his dear lady by one 
hand. 

And bearing on one arm the noble 
babe. 

He slowly brought them both to 
Lionel. 

And there the widower husband and 
dead wife 

Rush'd each at each with a cry, that 
rather seem'd 

For some new death than for a life 
renew'd ; 

Whereat the very babe began to wail ; 

At once tliey turn'd, and caught and 
brought him in 

To their charm'd circle, and, half kill- 
ing him 

With kisses, round him closed and 
claspt again. 

But Lionel, when at last he freed him- 
self 

From wife and child, and lifted up a 
face 

All over glowing with the sun of 
life. 

And love, and boundless thanks — 
the sight of this 

So frighted our good friend, that turn- 
ing to me 

And saying, " It is over : let us 
go" — 

There were our horses ready at the 
doors — 

We bade them no farewell, but mount- 
ing these 

He past for ever from his native land ; 

And I with him, my Julian, back to 
mine. 



BALLADS AJSTD OTHER POEMS. 



TO 

ALFRED TENNYSON, 

MT GRANDSON. 



Golden-hair'd Ally whose name is one with mine, 

Crazy with laughter and babble and earth's new wine, 

Now that the flower of a year and a half is thine, 

O little blossom, mine, and mine of mine, 

Glorious poet who never hast written a line, 

Laugh, for the name at the head of my verse is thine. 

May'st thou never be wrong'd by the nahie that is mine ! 



THE FIRST QUARREL. 
(in the isle of wight.) 



" Wait a little," you say, " you are 

sure it'll all come right," 
But the boy was born i' trouble, an' 

looks so wan an' so white : 
Wait ! an' once I ha' waited — I hadn't 

to wait for long. 
Now I wait, wait, wait for Harry. — 

No, no, you are doing me 

wrong ! 
Harry and I were married : the boy 

can hold up his head, 
The boy was born in wedlock, but 

after my man was dead ; 
I ha' work'd for him fifteen years, an' 

I work an' I wait to the end. 
I am all alone in the world, an' you 

are my only friend. 



Doctor, if you can wait, I'll tell you 

the tale o' my life. 
When Harry an' I were children, he 

call'd me his own little wife ; 
I was happ}' when I was with him, an' 

sorry wlien he was away. 
An' when we play'd together, I loved 

liim better than plaj' ; 
He workt me the daisy chain — he 

made me the cowslip ball. 
He fought the boys that were rude, 

an' I loved him better than all. 
Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at 

home in disgrace, 
I never could quarrel with Harry — I 

had but to look in his face. 



There was a farmer in Dorset of 

Harry's kin, that had need 
Of a good stout lad at his farm ; he 

sent, an' the father agreed ; 
So Harry was bound to the Dorsetshire 

farm for years an' for years ; 
I walked with him down to the quay, 

poor lad, an' we parted in tears. 
The boat was beginning to move, we 

heard them a-ringing the bell, 
"I'll never love any but you, God 

bless you, my own little Nell." 



I was a child, an' he was a child, an' 

he came to harm ; 
There was a girl, a hussy, that workt 

witii him up at the farm, 
One had deceived her an' left her 

alone with her sin an' her shame. 
And so she was wicked with Harry; the 

girl was the most to blame. 



And years went over till I that was 

little had grown io tall. 
The men would say of the maids, " ( )ur 

Nelly's the flower of 'em all." 
I didn't take heed o' them, but I taught 

myself all I could 
To make a good wife for Harry, when 

Harry came home for good. 



Often I seem'd unhappy, and often as 

happy too. 
For I heard it abroad in the fields " I'll 

never love any but you " ; 



THE FIRST QUARREL. 



567 



"I'll never love any but you" the 
morning song of the lark, 

"I'll never love any but you" the night- 
ingale's hymn in the dark. 



And Harry came home at last, but he 

look'd at me sidelong and shy, 
Vext me a bit, till he told me that so 

many years liad gone by, 
I had grown so handsome and tall — 

that I might ha' forgot him 

somehow — 
For he thought — there were other 

lads — he was fear'd to look 

at me now. 



Hard was the frost in the field, we were 

married o' Christmas day. 
Married among the red berries, an' all 

as merry as May — 
Those were the pleasant times, my 

house an' my man were my 

pride, 
"We seem'd like sliips i' the Channel 

a-sailing with wind an' tide. 



But work was scant in the Isle, tho' 

he tried tlie villages round, 
So Harry went over the Solent to see 

if work could be found ; 
An' he wrote, " I ha' six weeks' work, 

little wife, so far as I know ; 
I'll come for an hour to-morrow, an' 

kiss you before I go." 



So I set to righting the house, for 

wasn't he coming that day ? 
An' I hit on an old deal-box that was 

push'd in a corner away. 
It was full of old odds an' ends, an' a 

letter along wi' the rest, 
I had better ha' put my naked hand 

in a hornets' nest. 



" Sweetheart " — this was the letter — 

this was the letter I read — 
"You promised to tind me work near 

you, an' I wish I was dead — 
Didn't you kiss me an' iiromise ? you 

haven't done it, my lad. 
An' I almost died o' your going away, 

an' I wish that I had." 



I too wish that I had — in the pleasant 

times that had past. 
Before I quarrell'd with Harry — mij 

quarrel — the first an' the last. 



For Harry came in, an' I flung him 

the letter that drove me wild. 
An' he told it me all at once, as simple 

as any child, 
" What can it matter, my lass, what I 

did wi' my single life "? 
I ha' been as true to you as ever a 

man to his wife ; 
An' she wasn't one o' the worst." 

" Then," I said, " I'm none o' the 

best." 
An' he smiled at me, " Ain't you, my 

love ? Come, come, little wife, 

let it rest ! 
The man isn't like the woman, no 

need to make such a stir." 
But he anger'd me all the more, an' I 

said " You were keeping with her , 
When I was a-loving you all along an' 

the same as before." 
An' he didn't speak for a while, an' 

he anger'd me more and more. 
Then he patted my hand in his gentle 

way, " Let bygones be ! " 
" Bygones ! you kept yours hush'd," I 

said, " when you married me ! 
By-gones ma' be come-agains; an' she 

— in her shame an' her sin — 
You'll have her to nurse my child, if 

I die o' my lying in ! 
You'll make her its second mother! I 

hate her — an' I hate you ! " 
Ah, Harry, my man, you had better 

ha' beaten me black an' blue 
Than ha' spoken as kind as you did, 

when I were so crazy wi' spite, 
" Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill 

all come right." 



An' he took three turns in the rain, 

an' I watch'd him, an' when he 

came in 
I felt that my heart was hard, he was 

all wet tliro' to the skin, 
An' I never said " off wi' tlie wet," I 

never said "on wi' the dry," 
So 1 knew my heart was hard, when 

he came to bid me goodbye. 
" You said that you hated me, Ellen, 

but that isn't true, you know ; 
I am going to leave you a bit — you'll 

kiss me before I go ? " 



"Going! you're going to her — kiss 

her — if you will," I said, — 
I was near my time wi' the boy, I must 

ha' been light i' my head — 
" I had sooner be cursed than kiss'd ! " 

— I didn't know well what I 

meant, 



568 



RIZPAH. 



But I turn'd my face from him, an' he 
turn'd his face an' he went. 



And then he sent me a letter, " I've 

gotten my work to do ; 
You wouldn't kiss me, my lass, an' I 

never loved any but you ; 
I am %OTxy for all the quarrel an' sorry 

for what she wrote, 
I ha' six weeks' work in Jersey an' go 

to-niglit by the boat." 



An' the wind began to rise, an' I 

thought of him out at sea, 
An' I felt 1 had been to blame ; he 

was always kind to me. 
" Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 

'ill all come right " — 
An' the boat went down that night — 

the boat went down that night. 



RIZPAH. 

17—. 

I. 

Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind 

over land and sea — 
And Willy's voice in the wind, " O 

mother, come out to me." 
Why should lie call me to-night, when 

he knows that I cannot go ? 
For the downs are as bright as day, and 
the full moon stares at the snow. 



We should be seen, my dear; they 

would spy us out of the town. 
The loud black nights for us, and the 

storm rushing over the down. 
When I cannot see my own hand, but 

am led by the creak of the chain, 
And grovel and grope for my son till I 

find myself drenched with the 

rain. 

III. 
Anything fallen again ? nay — what 

was there left to fall ? 
I have taken them home, I have num- 

ber'd the bones, I have hidden 

them all. 
What am I saying ? and what are rjou ? 

do you come as a spy ? 
Falls ? what falls ? who knows ? As 

the tree falls so must it lie. 



Who let her in? how long has she been? 

you — what have you heard ? 
Why did you sit so quiet ? you never 

have spoken a word. 



O — to pray with me — yes — a lady 
— none of their spies — 

But the night has crept into my heart, 
and begun to darken my eyes. 



Ah — you, that have lived so soft, 

what should you know of tlie 

night. 
The blast and the burning shame and 

the bitter frost and the fright >. 
I have done it, while you were asleep — 

you were only made for the day: 
I have gather'd my bab}^ together — 

and now you may go your way. 



Nay — for it's kind of you. Madam, to 

sit by an old dying wife. 
But say nothing liard of my boy, I 

liave only an hour of life. 
I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before 

he went out to die. 
" Tliey dared me to do it," he said, 

and he never has told me a lie. 
I whipt him for robbing an orchard 

once when he was but a child — 
" The farmer dared me to do it," he 

said ; lie was always so wild — 
And idle — and couldn't be idle — my 

Willy — he never could rest. 
The King should have made him a 

soldier, he would have been 

one of his best. 



But he lived with a lot of wild mates, 

and they never would let him 

be good ; 
They swore that he dare not rob the 

mail, and he swore that he 

would ; 
And he took no life, but he took one 

purse, and when all was done 
He flung it among his fellows — I'll 

none of it, said my son. 



I came into court to the Judge and the 

lawyers. I told them my tale, 
God's own truth — but they kill'd liim, 

tliey kill'd him for robbing tiic 

mail. 
They hang'd him in chains for a show 

— we had always borne a good 

name — 
To be hang'd for a thief — and then 

put away — isn't that enougli 

shame ? 
Dust to dust — low down — let us hide ! 

but they set liim so high 
Tliat all the ships of the world could 

stare at him, passing by. 
God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven 

and liorrible fowls of the air. 



RIZPAH. 



569 



But not the black heart of the lawyer 
who kill'd him and hang'd him 
there. 



And the jailer forced me away. I had 

bid him my last goodbye ; 
They had fasten'd the door of his cell. 

" mother ! " I heard him cry. 
I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had 

something further to say, 
And now I never shall know it. The 

jailer forced me away. 



Then since I couldn't but hear that 

cry of my boy that was dead, 
They seized me and shut me up : they 

fasten'd me down on my bed. 
" Mother, mother ! " — he call'd in the 

dark to me year after year — 
They beat me for that, they beat me 

— you know that I couldn't but 

hear ; 
And then at the last they found I had 

grown so stupid and still 
They let me abroad again — but the 

creatures had worked their will. 



Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone 

of my bone was left — 
I stole them all from the lawyers — 

and you, will vou call it a 

theft ? — 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd 

me, the bones that had laughed 

and had cried — 
Theirs ? no ! they are mine — not 

theirs — they had moved in my 

side. 



Do you think I was scared by the 

bones ? I kiss'd "em, I buried 

'em all — 
I can't dig deep, I am old — in the 

night by the churchyard wall. 
My Will}' 'ill rise up whole when the 

trumpet of judgment 'ill sound, 
But I charge you never to say that I 

laid him in holy ground. 



They would scratch him up — they 

would hang him again on the 

cursed tree. 
Sin ■? O yes — we are sinners, I know 

— let all that be. 
And read me a Bible verse of the 

Lord's good will toward men — 
" Full of compassion and mercy, the 

Lord " — let me hear it again ; 



" Full of compassion and mercy — 

long-suffering." Yes, (J yes ! 
For the lawj'er is born but to murder 

— the Saviour lives but to bless. 
He'W. never put on the black cap except 

for the worst of the worst, 
And the first may be last — I liave 

heard it in church — and the 

last may be first. 
Suffering — long-suffering — yes, as 

the Lord must know. 
Year after year in the mist and the 

wind and the shower and the 



Heard, have you ? what ? they have 

told you he never repented his 

sin. 
How do they know it ? are they his 

mother % are you of his kin 1 
Heard ! have you ever heard, when 

the storm on the downs began. 
The wind that 'ill wail like a child and 

the sea that 'ill moan like a 

man ? 



Election, Election and Eeprobation — 

it's all very well. 
But I go to-night to my boy, and I 

shall not find him in Hell. 
For I cared so much for my boy that 

the Lord has look'd into my 

care. 
And He means me I'm sure to be happy 

with Willy, I know not where. 

XVI. 

And if he be lost — but to save my soul, 

that is all j'our desire : 
Do you think that I care for my soul 

if ray boy be gone to the fire ? 
I have been with God in the dark — go, 

go, you may leave me alone — 
You never have borne a child — you 

are just as hard as a stone. 



Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think 

that you mean to be kind. 
But I cannot hear what you say for my 

Willy's voice in the wind — 
The snow and the sky so bright — he 

used but to call in the dark, 
And he calls to me now from the 

church and not from the gibbet 

— for hark ! 
Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is 

coming — shaking the walls — 
Willy — the moon's in a cloud 

Good night. I am going. He 

calls. 



570 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 



Waait till our Sally coorns in, fur 

thou mun a' sights ' to tell. 
Eh, but I be maain glad to seea tha sa 

'arty an' well. 
" Cast awaay an a disolut land wi' a 

vartical soon '^ ! " 
Strange fur to goa fur to think what 

saiiilors a' seean an' a' doon ; 
" Sumniat to drink — sa' 'ot ? '' I 'a 

nowt but Adam's wine : 
What's the 'eat o' this little 'ill-side to 

the 'eat o' the line ? 



" What's i' tha bottle a-stanning 

theer ? " I'll tell tha. Gin. 
But if thou wants thy grog, tha mun 

goii fur it down to the inn. 
Naay — fur I be maan-glad, but thaw 

tha was iver sa dry, 
Thou gits naw gin fro' the bottle theer, 

an' I'll tell tha why. 



Mea an' thy sister was married, when 

wur it ? back-end o' June, 
Ten j^ear sin', and wa 'greed as well 

as a fiddle i' tune : 
I could fettle and clump owd boouts 

and shoes wi'the best on 'em all. 
As fur as fro' Thursby thurn Imp to 

Harmsby and Hutterby Hall. 
We was busy as beeas i' the bloom an' 

as 'appy as 'art could think. 
An' then the babby wur burn, and 

then I taakes to the drink. 



An' Iweant gaainsaay it, my lad, thaw 

I be hafe shaamed on it now. 
We could sing a good song at the 

Plow, we could sing a good song 

at the Plow ; 
Thaw once of a frosty night I slitlier'd 

an' hurted my huck,^ 
An' I coom'd neck-an-crop soomtimes 

slaape down i' the squad an' 

the muck : 

1 The vowels di, pronounced separately 
though in the closest conjunction, best render 
the sound of the long i and y iu this dialect. 
But since such words as crdiin' , ddiin', whdi, 
di (I), etc., look awkward except in a page 
of express phonetics, I have thought it better 
to leave the simple i and y, and trust that my 
readers will give them the broader pronunci- 
ation. 

- The 00 short, as in " wood." ^ Hip. 



An' once I fowt wi' the Taailor — not 

hafe ov a man, my lad — 
Fur he scrawm'd an' scratted my faace 

like a cat, an' it maade 'er sa 

mad 
That Sally she turn'd a tongue-bang- 
er, 1 an' raated ma, ' Sottin' thy 

braains 
Guzzlin' an' soakin' an' smoakin' an' 

hawmin' - about i' the laanes, 
Soa sow-droonk that tha doesn not 

touch thy 'at to the Squire ; ' 
An' I looiik'd cock-eyed at my noase 

an' I seead 'im a-gitten' o' fire ; 
But sin' I wur hallus i' liquor an' hal- 

lus as droonk as a king, 
Foalks' coostom flitted awaay like a 

kite wi' a brokken string. 



An' Sally she wesh'd foalks' cloaths 
to keep the wolf fro' the door. 

Eh but the moor she riled me, she 
druv me to drink the moor, 

Fur I fun', when 'er back wur turn'd, 
wheer Sally's owd stockin' wur 

An' I grabb'd the niunny she maade, 
and I weiir'd it o' liquor, I did. 



An' one night I cooms 'oara like a 

bull gotten loose at a faair. 
An' she wur a-waiiitin' fo'mma, an' 

cryin' and tearin' 'er 'aair. 
An' I tummled athurt the crajidle an' 

swear'd as I'd break ivry stick 
0' furnitur 'ere i' the 'ouse, an' I gied 

our Sally a kick, 
An' I mash'd the taables an' chairs, 

an' she an' the babby beal'd,* 
Fur I knaw'd naw moor what I did 

nor a mortal beast o' the feald. 



An' when I waiiked i' the murnin" I 

seead that our Sally went 

laJimed 
Cos' o' the kick as I gied 'er, an' I wur 

dreadfiU ashaamed ; 
An' Sally wur sloomy* an' draggle 

taail'd in an owd turn gown, 
An' the babby's faiice wurn't wesh'd 

and the 'ole 'ouse hupside down. 



An' then I minded our Sally sa pratty 

an' neat an' sweeat, 
Straat as a pole an' clean as a flower 

fro' 'ead to feeat ; 

> Scold. * Lounging. 

' Bellowed, cried out. 
* Sluggish, out of spirits. 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 



571 



An' then I minded the fust kiss I gied 

'er by Thursby thurn ; 
Theer wur a lark a-singin' 'is best of 

a Sunday at murn, 
Couldn't see 'im, we 'eard 'im a- 

mountin' oop 'igher an' 'igher, 
An' then 'e turn'd to the sun, an' 'e 

shined like a sparkle o' fire. 
" Doesn't tha see 'im," she axes, " fur 

1 can see 'im ? " an' I 
Seead nobbut the smile o' the sun as 

danced in 'er pratty blue eye ; 
An' I says " I mun gie tha a kiss," an' 

Sally says " Xoii, thou mount," 
But I gied'er a kiss, an' then anoother, 

an' Sally says " doant ! " 



An' when we coom'd into Meeatin', at 

fust she wur all in a tew. 
But, arter, we sing'd the 'ymn togither 

like birds on a beugh ; 
An' Muggins 'e preiich'd o' Hell-fire 

an' the loove o' God fur men, 
An then upo' coomin' awaay Sally 

gied me a kiss ov 'ersen. 



Heer wur a fall fro' a kiss to a kick 

like Saatan as fell 
Down out o' heaven i' Hell-fire — thaw 

theer's naw drinkin' i' Hell ; 
Mea fur to kick our Sally as kep the 

wolf fro' the door, 
All along o' the drink, fur I loov'd 'er 

as well as afoor. 



Sa like a graat num-cumpus I blub- 

ber'd awaiiy o' the bed — 
" Weant niver do it naw moor; " 

an' Sally loookt up an' she said, 
" I'll upowd it ' tha weant ; thou'rt 

like the rest o' the men, 
Thou'll goa snifBn' about the tap till 

tha does it agean. 
Theer's thy hennemy, man, an' I 

knaws, as knaws tha sa well. 
That, if tha seeas 'im an' smells 'im 

tha'll f oiler 'im slick into Hell." 



" Naay," says I, " fur I weant goa 

snitfin' about the tap." 
" Weant tha ? " she says, an' mysen I 

thowt i' mysen " mayhap." 
" Noa : " an' I started awaay like a 

shot, an' down to the Hinn, 
An' I browt what tha seeas stannin' 

theer, yon big black bottle o' 

gin. 

XIII. 

" That caps owt," ^ says Sally, an' saw 
she begins to cry, 

1 I'll uphold it. 

- That's beyond everything. 



But I puts it inter 'er 'ands 'an I says 

to 'er, " Sally," says I, 
" Stan' 'im theer i' the naiime o' the 

Lord an' the power ov 'is 

GraJice, 
Stan' 'im theer, fur I'll loook my 

hennemy strait i' the failce, 
Stan' 'im theer i' the winder, an' let 

ma loouk at 'im then, 
'E seeams naw moor nor watter, an' 

'e's the Divil's oan sen." 



An' I wur down i' tha mouth, couldn't 

do naw work an' all. 
Nasty an' snaggy an' shaaky, an' 

poonch'd my 'and wi' the hawl, 
But she wur a power o' coomfut, an' 

sattled 'ersen o' my knee, 
An' coaxd an' coodled me oop till 

agean I feel'd mysen free. 



An' Sally she tell'd it about, an' foiilk 

stood a-gawmin'i in. 
As thaw it wur summat beAvitch'd 

istead of a quart o' gin ; 
An' some on 'em said it wur watter — 

an' I wur chousin' the wife. 
Fur I couldn't 'owd 'ands off gin, wur 

it nobbut to saJive my life ; 
An' blacksmith 'e strips me the thick 

ov 'is airm, an' 'e shaws it to me, 
" Feeal thou this ! thou can't graw 

this upo' watter ! " says he. 
An' Doctor 'e calls o' Sunday an' just 

as candles was lit, 
" Thou moJint do it," he says, " tha 

mun break 'im oif bit by bit." 
"Thou'rt but a Methody-man," says 

Parson, and laays down 'is 'at, 
An' 'e points to the bottle o' gin, "but 

I resi^ecks tha fur that ; " 
An' Squire, his oan A'ery sen, walks 

down fro' the 'AH to see, 
An' 'e spanks 'is 'and into mine, " fur 

I respecks tha," says 'e ; 
An' coostom agean draw'd in like a 

wind fro' far an' wide, 
And browt me the booiits to be cob- 
bled fro' hafe the coontryside. 



An' theer 'e stans an' theer 'e shall 

Stan to my dying daiiy ; 
I 'a gotten to loov 'im agean in 

anoother kind of a wasiy. 
Proud on 'im, like, my lad, an' I 

keeaps 'im clean an' bright, 
Loove 'im, an' roobs 'im, an' doosts 

'im, an' puts 'im back i' the light. 

' (Staring vacantly. 



572 



THE REVENGE. 



Wouldn't a pint a' sarved as well as a 

quart ? Naw doubt : 
But I liked a bigger feller to fight wi' 

an' fowt it out. 
Fine an' nieller 'e mun be by this, if I 

cared to taiiste, 
But I nioiint, my lad, and I weant, fur 

I'd feal mysen clean dis- 

graaced. 

XVIII. 

An' once I said to the Missis, "My 

lass, when I cooms to die. 
Smash the bottle to smithers, the 

Divil's in 'im," said I. 
But arter I chaanged my mind, an' if 

Sally be left aloan, 
I'll hev 'im a-buried wi'mma an' taake 

'im afoor the Throan. 



Coom thou 'eer — yon laady a-steppin' 

along the streeat. 
Doesn't tha knaw 'er — sa pratty, an' 

feat, an' neiit, an' sweeat ? 
Look at the cloaths on 'er back, 

thebbe ammost spick-span-new, 
An' Tommy's faace be as fresh as a 

codlin wesh'd i' the dew. 



'Ere be our Sally an' Tommy, an' we 

be a-goin to dine, 
Baacon an' taates, an' a beslings-pud- 

din'i an' Adam's wine ; 
But if tha wants 0113^ grog tha mun 

goa fur it down to the Hinn, 
Fur I weant shed a drop on 'is blood, 

noa, not fur Sally's oan kin. 



THE REVENGE. 

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET. 
I. 

At Elohes in the Azores Sir Richard 

Grenville lay. 
And a pinnance, like a flutter'd bird, 

came flying from far away : 
" Spanish ships of war at sea ! we 

have sighted fifty-three ! " 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : 

" 'Fore God I am no coward ; 
But I cannot meet them here, for my 

ships are out of gear. 
And the half my men are sick. I 

must fly, but follow quick. 
We are six ships of the line ; can we 

fight with fifty-three ? " 



Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : " I 
know you are no coward ; 

' A pudding made with the first milk of 
the cow after calving. 



You fly them for a moment to fight 

with them again. 
But I've ninety men and more that 

are lying sick ashore. 
I should count myself the coward if I 

left them, my Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the 

devildoms of Spain." 



So Lord Howard past away with five 

ships of war that day. 
Till he melted like a cloud in the 

silent summer heaven ; 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his 

sick men from the land 
Very carefully and slow. 
Men of Bideford in Deyon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down 

below ; 
For we brought them all aboard. 
And they blest him in their pain, that 

they were not left to Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for 

the glory of the Lord. 



He had only a hundred seamen to 

work the ship and to fight. 
And he sailed away from Flores till 

the Spaniard came in sight, 
With his huge sea-castles heaving 

upon the weather bow. 
" Shall we fight or shall we fly 1 
Good Sir Richard, tell us now. 
For to fight is but to die ! 
There'll be little of us left by the 

time this sun be set." 
And Sir Richard said again : " We be 

all good English men. 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the 

children of the devil, 
For I never turn'd my back upon 

Don or devil yet." 



Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and 

we roar'd a hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into 

the heart of the foe. 
With her hundred flghters on deck, 

and her ninety sick below ; 
For half of their fleet to the right 

and half to the left were seen, 
And the little Revenge ran on thro' 

the long sea-lane between. 



Thousands of their soldiers look'd 
down from their decks and 
laugh'd, 

Thousands of their seamen made 
mock at the mad little craft 

Running on and on, till delay'd 



THE REVENGE. 



573 



By their mountain-like San Philip 
that, of fifteen hundred tons, 

And up-shadowing high above us with 
her yawning tiers of guns, 

Took the breath from our sails, and 
we stav'd. 



And while now the great San Philip 
hung above us like a cloud 

Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud, 

Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day. 

And two upon the larboard and two 
upon the starboard lay, 

And the battle-thunder broke from 
them all. 



But anon the great San Philip, she be- 
thought herself and went 

Having that within her womb that 
had left her ill content ; 

And the rest they came aboard us, and 
they fought us hand to hand. 

For a dozen times they came with 
their pikes and musqueteers. 

And a dozen times we shook 'em off 
as a dog that shakes his ears 

When he leaps from the water to the 
land. 



And the sun went down, and the stars 

came out far over the summer 

sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight 

of the one and the fifty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

their high-built galleons came. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

with her battle-thunder and 

flame ; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

drewbackwith her dead and her 

shame. 
For some were sunk and many were 

shatter'd, and so could fight us 

no more — 
God of battles, w-as ever a battle like 

this in the world before "? 



For he said " Fight on ! fight on ! " 
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 
And it chanced that, when half of the 

short suAmer night was gone. 
With a grisly wound to be drest he 

had left the deck. 
But a bullet struck him that was 

dressing it suddenly dead. 
And himself he was wounded again in 

the side and the head. 
And he said " Fight on ! fight on ! " 



And the night went down, and the sun 

smiled out far over the summer 

sea. 
And the Spanish fleet with broken 

sides lay round us all in a ring ; 
But they dared not touch us again, 

for they fear'd that we still 

could sting, 
So they watch'd what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we. 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were 

slain. 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for 

life 
In the crash of the cannonades and 

the desperate strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold 

were most of them stark and 

cold, 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, 

and the powder was all of it 

spent ; 
And the masts and the rigging were 

lying over the side ; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English 

pride, 
" We have fought such a fight for a 

day and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, my men ! 
And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore. 
We die — does it matter when 1 
Sink me the ship. Master Gunner — 

sink her, split her in twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into 

the hands of Spain ! " 



And the gunner said "Ay, ay," but 

the seamen made reply : 
" We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, 

if we yield, to let us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to 

strike another blow." 
And the lion there lay dying, and they 

yielded to the foe. 



And the stately Spanish men to their 

flagship bore him then. 
Where they laid him by the mast, old 

Sir Richard caught at last, 
And they praised him to his face with 

their courth^ foreign grace ; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he 

cried : 
" I have fought for Queen and Faith 

like a valiant man and true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is 

bound to do : 



574 



THE SISTERS. 



With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard 

Grenville die ! " 
And he fell upon their decks, and he 

died. 



And they stared at the dead that had 

been so valiant and true, 
And had holden the power and glory 

of Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship 

and his English few; 
Was he devil or man ? He was devil 

for aught they knew, 
But tliey sank his body with honor 

down into the deep, 
And they mann'd the Revenge with a 

swartliier alien crew, 
And away she sail'd with her loss and 

long'd for her own ; 
When a wind from the lands they had 

ruin'd awoke from sleep, 
And the water began to heave and the 

weather to moan. 
And or ever that evening ended a 

great gale blew, 
And a wave like the wave that is 

raised by an earthquake grew. 
Till it smote on their hulls and their 

sails and their masts and their 

flags, 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on 

theshot-sliatter'dnavy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went 

down by the island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 



THE SISTERS. 

They have left the doors ajar; and 

by their clash. 
And prelude on the keys, I know the 

song, 
Their favorite — which I call " The 

Tables Turned." 
Evelyn begins it " O diviner Air." 



O diviner Air, 

Thro' the heat, the drowth, the dust, 

the glare, 
Far from out tlie west in shadowing 

showers. 
Over all the meadow baked and bare, 
Making fresh and fair 
All the bowers and the flowers. 
Fainting flowers, faded bowers. 
Over all this weary world of ours. 
Breathe, diviner Air ! 

A sweet voice that — you scarce could 

better that. 
Now follows Edith echoing Evelyn. 



O diviner light, 

Thro' the cloud that roofs our noon 
with night, 

Thro' the blotting mist, the blinding 
showers. 

Far from out a sky for ever bright. 

Over all the woodland's flooded bowers, 

Over all the meadow's drowning flow- 
ers, 

Over all this ruin'd Avorld of ours, 

Break, diviner light ! 

Marvellously like, their voices — and 

themselves ! 
Tho' one is somewhat deeper than the 

other. 
As one is somewhat graver than the 

other — 
Edith than Evelyn. Your good Uncle, 

whom 
You count the father of your fortune, 

longs 
For this alliance : let me ask you then. 
Which voice most takes you ? for I 

do not doubt 
Being a watchful parent, you are 

taken 
With one or other : tho' sometimes I 

fear 
You may be flickering, fluttering in a 

doubt 
Between the two — which must not be 

— which might 
Be death to one : they both are beau- 
tiful : 
Evelyn is gayer, wittier, prettier, says 
The common voice, if one may trust 

it : she ? 
No! but the paler and the graver, 

Edith. 
Woo her and gain her then : no 

wavering, boy ! 
The graver is perhaps the one for you 
Who jest and laugh so easily and so 

well. 
For love will go by contrast, as by 

likes. 

No sisters ever prized each other 

more. 
Not so: their mother and her sister 

loved 
More passionately still. 

But that my best 
And oldest friend, your Uncle, wishes 

it, 
And that I know y(A worthy every- 
way 
To be my son, I might, perchance, be 

loath 
To part them, or i)art from them : and 

yet one 
Should marry, or all the broad lands 

in vour view 



THE SISTERS. 



575 



Frbm this bay window — wliicli our 
house has held 

Three hundred years — will pass col- 
laterally. 

My father with a child on either 

knee, 
A hand upon the head of either child, 
Smoothing their locks, as golden as 

his own 
Were silver, " get them wedded " 

would he say. 
And once my prattling Edith ask'd 

him " why ? " 
Ay, why ? said he, " for why should I 

go lame ? " 
Then told them of his wars, and of 

his wound. 
For see — this wine — the grape from 

whence it flow'd 
Was blackening on the slopes of 

Portugal, 
When that brave soldier, down the 

terrible ridge 
Plunged in the last fierce charge at 

Waterloo, 
And caught the laming bullet. He 

left me this, 
Which yet retains a memory of its 

youth. 
As I of mine, and my first passion. 

Come ! 
Here's to your happy union with my 

child ! 

Yet must you change your name : 

no fault of mine ! 
You say that you can do it as willingly 
As birds make ready for their bridal- 
time 
By change of feather : for all that, 

my boy, 
Some birds are sick and sullen when 

they moult. 
An old and worthy name ! but mine 

that stirr'd 
Among our civil wars and earlier too 
Among the Roses, the more venerable. 
I care not for a name — no fault of 

mine. 
Once more — a happier marriage than 

my own ! 

You see yon Lombard poplar on the 

plain. 
The highway running by it leaves a 

breadth 
Of sward to left and right, where, long 

ago. 
One bright May morning in a world 

of song, 
I lay at leisure, watching overhead 
The aerial poplar wave, an amber 

spire. 

I dozed ; I woke. An open landau- 
let 



Whirl'd by, which, after it liad past 

me, sliow'd 
Turning m}^ way, the loveliest face 

on earth. 
The face of one there sitting opposite, 
On whom I brought a strange unhap- 

piness, 
That time I did not see. 

LoA'e at first sight 
May seem — with goodly rhyme and 

reason for it — 
Possible — at first glimpse, and for a 

face 
Gone in a moment — strange. Yet 

once, when first 
I came on lake Llanbcrris in the dark, 
A moonless night with storm — one 

lightning-fork 
Flash'd out the lake ; and tho' I 

loiter'd there 
The full day after, yet in retrospect 
That less than momentary thunder- 
sketch 
Of lake and mountain conquers all 

the day. 

The Sun himself has limn'd the face 

for me. 
Not quite so quickly, no, nor half as 

well. 
For look you here — the shadows are 

too deep. 
And like the critic's blurring comment 

make 
The veriest beauties of the work 

appear 
The darkest faults : the sweet eyes 

frown : the lips 
Seem but a gash. M}'^ sole memorial 
Of Edith — no, the other, — both 

indeed. 

So that bright face was flash'd thro' 
sense and soul 

And by the poplar vanish'd — to be 
found 

Long after, as it seem'd, beneath the 
tall 

Tree-bowers, and those long-sweeping 
beechen boughs 

Of our New Forest. I was there alone ■ 

The phantom of the whirling landau- 
let 

For ever past me by : when one quick 
peal 

Of laughter drew me thro' the glim- 
mering glades 

Down to the snowlike sparkle of a 
cloth 

On fern and foxglove. Lo, the face 
again, 

My Rosalind in this-Arden — Edith 
— all 

One bloom of youth, health, beauty, 
happiness, 



576 



THE SISTERS. 



And moved to merriment at a passing 

jest. 

There one of those about her know- 
ing me 

Call'd me to join them; so with these 
I spent 

What seem'd my crowning hour, my 
day of days. 

I woo'd her then, nor unsuccess- 
fully, 

The worse for her, for me ! was I con- 
tent ^ 

Ay — no, not quite ; for now and then 
I thought 

Laziness, vague love-longings, the 
bright May, 

Had made a heated haze to magnify 

The charm of Edith — that a man's 
ideal 

Is high in Heaven, and lodged with 
Plato's God, 

Not findable here — content, and not 
content, 

In some such fashion as a man may 
be_ 

That having had the portrait of his 
friend 

Drawn by an artist, looks at it, and 
says, 

" Good ! very like ! not altogether he." 

As yet I had not bound myself by 

words. 
Only, believing I loved Edith, made 
Edith love me. Then came the day 

when I, 
Flattering myself that all my doubts 

were fools 
Born of the fool this Age that doubts 

of all — 
Not I that day of Edith's love or 

mine — 
Had braced my purpose to declare 

myself : 
I st(|pd upon the stairs of Paradise. 
The golden gates would open at a 

word. 
I spoke it — told her of my passion, 

seen 
And lost and found again, had got so 

far, 
Had caught her hand, her eyelids 

fell — I heard 
Wheels, and a noise of welcome at 

the doors — 
On a sudden after two Italian years 
Had set the blossom of her health 

again, 
The younger sister, Evelyn, enter'd 

— there, 
There was the face, and altogether 

she. 
The mother fell about the daughter's 

neck, 



The sisters closed in one another's 

arms, 
Their people throng'd about them 

from the hall. 
And in the thick of question and 

reply 
I fled the house, driven by one angel 

face. 
And all the Furies. 

I was bound to her; 
I could not free myself in honor — 

bound 
Not by the sounded letter of the word. 
But counterpressures of the yielded 

hand 
That timorously and faintly echoed 

mine. 
Quick blushes, the sweet dwelling of 

her eyes 
Upon me when she thought I did not 

see — 
Were these not bonds ? nay, nay, but 

could I wed her 
Loving the other ? do her that great 

wrong ? 
Had I not dream'd I loved her yester- 

morn ? 
Had I not known where Love, at first 

a fear. 
Grew after marriage to full height 

and form ? 
Yet after marriage, that mock-sister 

there — 
Brother-in-law — the fiery nearness of 

it — 
Unlawful and disloyal brotherhood — 
What end but darkness could ensue 

from this 
For all the three 1 So Love and Honor 

jarr'd 
Tho' Love and Honor join'd to raise 

the full 
High-tide of doubt that sway'd me up 

and down 
Advancing nor retreating. 

Edith wrote: 
" My mother bids me ask " (I did not 

tell you — 
A widow with less guile than many a 

child. 
God help the wrinkled children that 

are Christ's 
As well as the plump cheek — she 

wrought us harm. 
Poor soul, not knowing) " are you 

ill ? " (so ran 
The letter) " you have not been here 

of late. 
You will not find me here. At last I 

go 
On that long-promised visit to the 

North. 
I told your wayside story to my 

mother 



THE SISTERS. 



577 



And Evelyn. She remembers you. 
Farewell. 

Pray come and see my mother. Al- 
most blind 

With ever-growing cataract, yet she 
thinks 

She sees you when she hears. Again 
farewell." 

Cold words from one I had hoped to 

warm so far 
That I could stamp my image on her 

heart ! 
" Pray come and see my mother, and 

farewell." 
Cold, but as welcome as free airs of 

heaven 
After a dungeon's closeness. Selfish, 

strange ! 
What dwarfs are men ! my strangled 

vanity 
Utter'd a stifled cry — to have vext 

myself 
And all in vain for her — cold heart 

or none — 
No bride for me. Yet so my path 

was clear 
To win the sister. 

Whom I woo'd and won. 
For Evelyn knew not of my former 

suit. 
Because the simple mother work'd upon 
By Edith pray'd me not to whisper of it. 
And Edith would be bridesmaid on 

the day. 
. But on that day, not being all at 

ease, 
I from the altar glancing back upon 

her. 
Before the first " I will " was utter'd, 

saw 
The bridesmaid pale, statuelike, pas- 
sionless — 
" No harm, no harm " I turn'd again, 

and placed 
My ring upon the finger of my bride. 

So, when we parted, Edith spoke 

no word. 
She wept no tear, but round my 

Evelyn clung 
In utter silence for so long, I thought 
" What, will she never set her sister 

free % " 

We left her, happy each in each, 
and then. 

As tho' the happiness of each in each 

Were not enough, must fain have tor- 
rents, lakes, 

Hills, the great things of Nature and 
the fair. 

To lift us as it were from common- 
place, 

And help us to our joy. Better have 
sent 



Our Edith thro' the glories of the 

earth. 
To change with her horizon, if true 

Love 
Were not his own imperial all-in-all. 

Far off we went. My God, I would 
not live 
Save that I think this gross hard- 
seeming world 
Is our misshaping vision of the Powers 
Behind the world, that make our griefs 
our gains. 

For on the dark night of our mar- 
riage-day 

The great Tragedian, that had 
quench'd herself 

In that assumption of the bridesmaid 
— she 

That loved me — our true Edith — 
her brain broke 

With over-acting, till she rose and 
fled 

Beneath a pitiless rush of Autumn 
rain 

To the deaf church — to be let in — 
to pray 

Before that altar — so I think; and 
there 

They found her beating the hard Pro- 
testant doors. 

She died and she was buried ere we 
knew. 

I learnt it first. I had to speak. 

At once 
The bright quick smile of Evelyn, 

that had sunn'd 
The morning of our marriage, past 

away : 
And on our home-return the daily 

want 
Of Edith in the house, the garden, 

still 
Haunted us like her ghost; and by 

and by. 
Either from that necessity for talk 
Which lives with blindness, or plain 

innocence 
Of nature, or desire that her lost 

child 
Should earn from both the praise of 

heroism. 
The mother broke her promise to the 

dead. 
And told the living daughter with 

what love 
Edith had welcomed my brief wooing 

of her. 
And all her sweet self-sacrifice and 

death. 

Henceforth that mystic bond be- 
twixt the twins — 



578 



THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE ENTAIL. 



Did I not tell you they were twins ? 

— prevail'd 

So far that no caress could win my 

wife 
Back to that passionate answer of full 

heart 
I had from her at first. Not that her 

love, 
Tho' scarce as great as Edith's power 

of love. 
Had lessen'd, but the mother's gar- 
rulous wail 
For ever woke the unhappy Past 

again, 
Till that dead bridesmaid, meant to 

be my bride, 
Put forth cold hands between us, and 

I fear'd 
The very fountains of her life were 

chill'd; 
So took her thence, and brought her 

here, and here 
She bore a child, whom reverently we 

call'd 
Edith; and in the second year was 

born 
A second — this I named from her 

own self, 
Evelyn ; then two weeks — no more 

— she joined. 

In and beyond the grave, that one 

she loved. 
Now in this quiet of declining life, 
Thro' dreams by night and trances of 

the day, 
The sisters glide about me hand in 

hand, 
Both beautiful alike, nor can I tell 
One from the other, no, nor care to 

tell 
One from the other, only know they 

come, 
They smile upon me, till, remembering 

all 
The love they both have borne me, 

and the love 
I bore them both — divided as I am 
From either by the stillness of the 

grave — 
I know not which of these I love the 

best. 

But you love Edith ; and her own 
true eyes 

Are traitors to her ; our quick Ev- 
elyn — 

The merrier, prettier, wittier, as they 
talk, 

And not without good reason, my 
good son — 

Is yet untouch'd : and I that hold 
them both 

Dearest of all. things — well, I am not 
sure — 

But if there lie a preference either way. 

And in tho rich vocabulary of Love 



" Most dearest " be a true superla- 
tive — 

I think / likewise love your Edith 
most. 



THE VILLAGE WIFE ; OR, 
THE ENTAIL, i 



'OusE-KEEPER scnt tha my lass, fur 
New Squire coom'd last night. 

Butter an' heggs — yis — yis. I'll 
goa wi' tha back : all right ; 

Butter I warrants be prime, an' I war- 
rants the heggs be as well, 

Hafe a pint o' milk runs out when ya 
breaks the shell. 



Sit thysen down fur a bit : hev a glass 

o' cowslip wine ! 
I liked the owd Squire an' 'is gells as 

thaw they was gells o' mine, 
Fur then we was all es one, the Squire 

an' 'is darters an' me. 
Hall but Miss Annie, the heldest, I 

niver not took to siie : 
But Nelly, the last of the cletch- I 

liked 'er the fust on 'em all, 
Fur hoffens we talkt o' my darter es 

died o' the fever at fall : 
An' I tliowt 'twur the will o' the Lord, 

but Miss Annie she said it wur 

draiiins, 
Fur she hedn't naw coomfut in 'er, an' 

arn'd naw thanks fur 'er paiiins. 
Eh ! thebbe all wi' the Lord my childer, 

I han't gotten none ! 
Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taiiil in 

'is 'and, an' owd Squire's gone. 



Fur 'staate be i' taail, my lass : tha 

dosn' knaw what that be ? 
But I knaws the law, I does, for the 

lawyer ha towd it me. 
" When theer's naw 'eiid to a 'Ouse by 

tlie fault o' that ere maiile — 
The gells they counts fur nowt, and 

the next un he taakes the taail." 



What be the next un like ? can tha 

tell ony harm on 'im lass ? — 
Naay sit down — naw 'urry — sa 

cowd ! — hev another glass ! 
Straange an' cowd fur the time ! we 

may happen a fall o' snaw — 
Not es I cares fur to hear ony harm, 

but I likes to knaw. 

1 See note to " Northern Cobbler." 
- A brood of chickens. 



THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE ENTAIL. 



579 



An' I 'oaps es 'e beant boooklarn'd : 
but 'e dosn' not coom fro' the 
shere ; 

We' anew o' that wi' the Squire, an' 
we haiites boooklarnin' ere. 



Fur Squire wur a Varsity scholard, an' 

niver lookt arter the land — 
Wheats or turmuts or taittes — e' 'ed 

hallus a booilk i' 'is 'and, 
Hallus aloan wi' 'is boouks, thaw nigh 

upo' seventy year. 
An' boooks, what's boooks ? thou 

knaws thebbe neyther 'ere nor 

theer. 



An' the gells, they hadn't naw taails, 

an' the lawyer he towd it me 
That 'is taail were soii tied up es he 

couldn't cut down a tree ! 
"Drat the trees," says I, to be sewer I 

haates 'em, my lass, 
Fur we puts tlie muck o' the land an' 

they sucks the muck fro' the 



An' Squire wur hallus a-smilin', an' 

gied to the tramps goin' by — 
An' all o' the wust i' the parish — wi' 

hoffens a drop in 'is eye. 
An' ivry darter o' Squire's hed her 

awn ridin-erse to 'ersen, 
An' they rampaged about wi' their 

grooms, an' was 'untin' arter 

the men. 
An' hallus a-dallackt ^ an' dizen'd out, 

an' a-buyin' new cloiithes. 
While 'e sit like a graat glimmer- 
gowk '■^ wi' 'is glasses athurt 'is 

noiise. 
An' 'is noiise sa grafted wi' snuff as it 

couldn't be scroob'd awaay. 
Fur atween 'is readin' an' writin' 'e 

snifft up a box in a daily, 
An' 'e niver runn'd arter the fox, nor 

arter the birds wi' 'is gun, 
An' 'e niver not shot one 'are, but 'e 

leaved it to Charlie 'is son, 
An' 'e niver not fish'd 'is awn ponds, 

but Charlie 'e cotch'd the pike. 
For 'e warn't not burn to the land, an' 

'e didn't take kind to it like ; 
But I ears es 'e'd gie fur a howry ^ owd 

book thutty pound an' moor, 
An' 'e'd wrote an owd book, his awn 

sen, sa I knaw'd es 'e'd coora 

to be poor ; 
An' 'e gied — I be fear'd to tell tha 'ow 

much — fur an owd scratted 

stoan, 



1 Overdressed in gay colors. 
3 Filthy. 



Owl. 



An' 'e digg'd up a loomp i' the land 

an' 'e got a brown pot an' a 

boan. 
An' 'e bowt owd money, es Avouldn't 

goii, wi' good gowd o' the 

Queen, 
An' 'e bowt little statutes all-naakt 

an' which was a shaame to be 

seen ; 
But 'e niver loookt ower a bill, nor 'e 

niver not seed to owt, 
An' 'e niver knawd nowt but boooks, 

an' boouks, as thou knaws, 

beant nowt. 



But owd Squire's laady es long es she 

lived she kep 'em all clear, 
Thaw es long es she lived I never hed 

none of 'er darters 'ere ; 
But arter she died we was all es one, 

the childer an' me. 
An' sarvints runn'd in an' out, an' 

oftens we hed 'em to tea. 
Lawk ! 'ow I laugh'd when the lasses 

'ud talk o' their Missis's waays. 
An' the Missisis talk'd o' the lasses. — 

I'll tell tha some o' these daays. 
Hoanly Miss Annie were saw stuck 

oop, like 'er mother afoor — 
'Er an' 'er blessed darter — they niver 

derken'd my door. 



An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled till 

'e'd gotten a fright at last. 
An' 'e calls fur 'is son, fur the 'turney's 

letters they foller'd sa fast ; 
But Squire wur afear'd o' 'is son, 

an' 'e says to 'im, meek as a 

mouse, 
" Lad, thou mim cut off thy tajiil, or 

the gells 'uU goa to the 'Ouse, 
Fur I finds es I be that i' debt, es I 

'oaps es thou'll 'elp me a bit, 
An' if thou'll 'gree to cut off thy taail 

I may saave mysen yit." 



But Charlie 'e sets back 'is ears, 'an 'e 

swears, an' 'e says to im " Noa. 
Fve gotten the 'staiite by the taail an' 

be dang'd if I iver let goii ! 
Coom ! coom ! feyther," 'e says, " why 

shouldn't thy boouks be sowd ? 
I hears es soom o' thy boouks mebbe 

worth their weight i' gowd." 



Heaps an' heaps o' boooks, I ha' see'd 
'em, belong'd to the Squire, 

But the lasses 'ed teard out leaves i' 
the middle to kindle the fire ; 

Sa moast on 'is owd big boouks fetch'd 
nigh to nowt at tlie saale. 



580 



THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE ENTAIL. 



And Squire were at Charlie agean to 
<jit 'im to cut off 'is tajiil. 



Ya wouldn't find Charlie's likes — 'e 

were that outdacious at oani, 
Not tliaw 3'awent fur to raJike out Hell 

wi' a small-tooth coiimb — 
Droonk wi' the Quoloty's wine, an' 

droonk wi' the farmer's aale, 
^lad wi' the lasses an' all — an' 'e 

wouldn't cut off the taail. 



Thou's coom'd oop by the beck ; and 

a thurn be a-grawin' theer, 
I niver ha seed it sa white wi' the 

MaJiy es I see'd it to-year — 
Theerabouts Charlie joompt — and it 

gied me a scare tother night, 
Fur I thowt it wur Charlie's ghoJist i' 

the derk, fur it looukt sa white. 
"Billy," says 'e, " hev a joomp!" — 

thaw the banks o' the beck be 

sa high. 
Fur he ca'd 'is 'erse Billy-rough-un, 

thaw niver a hair wur awry ; 
But Billy fell bakkuds o' Charlie, an' 

Charlie 'e brok 'is neck, 
Sa theer wur a hend o' the taail, fur 

'e lost 'is taJiil i' the beck. 



Sa 'is taail wur lost an' 'is boooks wur 

gone an' 'is boy wur dead, 
An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled, but 

'e niver not lift oop 'is 'ead : 
Hallus a soft un Squire ! an' 'e smiled, 

fur 'e hedn't naw friend, 
Sa f ey ther an' son was buried togither, 

an' this wur the hend. 



An' Parson as hesn't the call, nor the 

mooney, but hes the pride, 
'E reiids of a sewer an' sartan 'oap o' 

the tother side; 
But I beant that sewer es the Lord, 

howsiver they praay'd an' 

praay'd. 
Lets them inter 'eaven eiisy es leaves 

their debts to be paiiid. 
Siver the raou'ds rattled down upo' 

poor owd Squire i' the wood, 
An' I cried along wi' the gells, fur 

they weant niver coom to naw 



Fur Molly the long un she walkt 
awaay wi' a hofficer lad. 

An' nawbody 'card on 'er sin, sa o' 
coorse she be gone to the bad! 

An' Lucy wur laame o' one leg, sweet- 
'arts she niver 'cd none — 



Strailnge an' unheppen ^ Miss Lucy ! 
' we naiimed her " Dot an' gaw 

one ! " 
An' Hetty wur weak i' the hattics, 

wi'out ony harm i' the legs. 
An' the fever 'ed baiiked Jinny's 'ead 

as bald as one o' them heggs. 
An' Nell}"^ wur up fro' the craiidle as 

big i' the mouth as a cow, 
An' saw she mun hammergrate,^ lass, 

or she weant git a maate ony- 

how ! 
An' es for Miss Annie es call'd me 

afoor my awn foiilks to my 

fa ace 
" A hignorant village wife as 'ud hev 

to be larn'd her awn plaiice," 
Hes for Miss Hannie the heldest hes 

now be a grawin sa howd, 
I knaws that mooch o' shea, es it beant 

not fit to be towd ! 



Sa I didn't not taake it kindly ov owd 

Miss Annie to saay 
Es I should be talkin ageJin 'em, es 

soon es they went awaay, 
Fur, lawks ! 'ow I cried when they 

went, an' our Nelly she gied me 

'er 'and. 
Fur I'd ha done owt for the Squire an' 

'is gells es belong'd to the land ; 
Boooks, es I said afoor, thebbe ney- 

ther 'ere nor theer ! 
But I sarved 'em wi' butter an' heggs 

fur huppuds o' twenty j^ear. 



An' they hallus paaid what I hax'd, 

sa I hallus deal'd wi' the Hall, 
An' they knaw'd what butter wur, an' 

they knaw'd what a hegg wur 

an' all ; 
Hugger-mugger they lived, but they 

wasn't that easy to please. 
Till I gied 'em Hinjian curn, an' they 

laaid big heggs es tha seeas ; 
An' I niver puts saanie^ i' my butter, 

they does it at Willis's farm, 
Taaste another drop o' the wine — 

tweant do tha na harm. 



Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taail in 

'is 'and, an' owd Squire's gone; 

I heard 'im a roomlin' by, but arter 

my nightcap wur on ; 
Sa I han't clapt eyes on 'im yit, fur he 

coom'd last night sa laate — 
Pluksh ! ! ! ■* the hens i' the pciis ! why 
didn't tha hesp tha gaate ? 
1 Ungainly, awkward. ^ Emigrate. 

8 Lard. 

* A cry accompanied by a clapping of hands 
to scare trespassing fowl. 



IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. 



581 



IN THE CHILDREN'S 
HOSPITAL. 



Our doctor had call'd in another, I 

never had seen him before, 
But he sent a chill to my heart when 

I saw him come in at the door, 
Fresh from the surgery-schools of 

France and of other lands — 
Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, 

big merciless hands ! 
Wonderful cures he had done, yes, 

but they said too of him 
He was happier using the knife than 

in trying to save the limb. 
And that I can well believe, for he 

look'd so coarse and so red, 
I could think he was one of those wlio 

would break their jests on the 

dead, 
And mangle the living dog that had 

loved him and fawn'd at his 

knee — 
Drench'd with the hellish oorali — that 

ever such things should be ! 



Here was a boy — I am sure that some 

of our children would die 
But for the voice of Love, and the 

smile, and the comforting eye — 
Here was a boy in the ward, every 

bone seem'd out of its place — 
Caught in a mill and crush'd — it was 

all but a hopeless case :" 
And he handled him gentl}' enough; 

but his voice and his face were 

not kind. 
And it was but a hopeless case, he 

had seen it and made up his 

mind. 
And he said to me roughly "The lad 

will need little more of your 

care." 
" All the more need," I told him, " to 

seek the Lord Jesus in praj'er ; 
They are all his children here, and I 

pray for them all as my own : " 
But he turn'd to me, " Ay, good woman, 

can prayer seta broken bone7 " 
Then he mutter'd lialf to himself, but 

I know that I heard him say 
"All very well — but the good Lord 

Jesus has had his day." 

III. 
Had ■? has it come ? It has only 
dawn'd. It will come by and 

by. 

how could I serve in the wards if the 
hope of the world were a lie ? . 

How could I bear with the sights and 
the loathsome smells of disease 



But that He said "Ye do it to me, 
when ye do it to these " '\ 



So he went. And we past to this 
ward where the younger chil- 
dren are laid : 

Here is the cot of our orphan, our dar- 
ling, our meek little maid ; 

Empty you see just now ! We have 
lost her who loved her so 
much — 

Patient of pain tho' as quick as a sen- 
sitive plant to the touch ; 

Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often 
moved me to tears. 

Hers was the gratefullest heart I have 
f oimd in a child of her years — 

Nay you remember our Emmie ; you 
used to send her the flowers ; 

How she would smile at 'em, play 
with 'em, talk to 'em hours 
after hours ! 

They that can wander at will where the 
works of the Lord are reveal'd 

Little guess what joy can be got from 
a cowslip out of the fields ; 

Flowers to these " spirits in prison " 
are all they can know of the 
spring. 

They freshen and sweeten the wards 
like the waft of an Angel's 
wing ; 

And she lay with a flower in one hand 
and her thin hands crost on her 
breast — 

Wan, but as pretty as heart can de- 
sire, and we thought her at rest, 

Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doc- 
tor said " Poor little dear. 

Nurse, I must do it to-morrow ; she'll 
never live thro' it, I fear." 



I walk'd with our kindly old doctor as 
far as the head of the stair, 

Then I return'd to the ward ; the child 
didn't see I was there. 



Never since I was nurse, had I been 

so grieved and so vext ! 
Emmie had heard him. Softlj* she 

call'd from her cot to the next, 
" He says I shall never live thro' it, 

Annie, what shall I do ? " 
Annie consider'd. " If I," said the 

wise little Annie, " was you, 
I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to 

help me, for, Emmie, j'ou see, 
It's all in the picture there ; ' Little 

children should come to me.' " 
(Meaning the print that you gave us, 

I find that it always can please 



5 82 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 



Our children, the dear Lord Jesus 

with children about his knees.) 
" Yes, and I will," said Emmie, " but 

then if I call to the Lord, 
How should he know that it's me ? 

such a lot of beds in the ward ! " 
That was a puzzle for Annie. Again 

she consider'd and said : 
"Emmie, you put out your arms, and 

vou leave 'em outside on the 

bed — 
The Lord has so mncli to see to ! but, 

Emmie, you tell it him plain, 
It's the little girl with her arms lying 

otit on the counterjiane." 

A'll. 

I had sat three nights by the child — 

I could not watch her for four — 
My brain had begun to reel — I felt I 

could do it no more. 
That was my sleeping-night, but I 

thought that it never would 

pass. 
There was a thunderclap once, and a 

clatter of hail on the glass. 
And there was a phantom cry that I 

heard as I tost about, 
The motherless bleat of a lamb in the 

storm and the darkness with- 
out; 
My sleep was broken beside with 

dreams of tlie dreadful knife 
And fears for our delicate Emmie who 

scarce would escape with her 

life; 
Then in the gray of the morning it 

seem'd she stood by me and 

smiled, 
And the dbctor came at his hour, and 

we went to see to the child. 



He had brought his ghastly tools : we 

believed her asleep again — 
Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying 

out on the counterpane ; 
Say that His day is done ! Ah why 

should we care what they say ? 
The Lord of the children had heard 

her, and Emmie had past away. 



DEDICATORY POEM TO THE 
PRINCESS ALICE. 

Dead Prinxess, living Power, if that, 

which lived 
True life, live on — and if the fatal 

kiss. 
Born of true life and love, divorce 

thee not ' 
From earthly love and life — if what 

we call 



The spirit tlasli not all at once from 

out 
This shadow into Substance — then 

perhaps 
The mellow'd murmur of the people's 

praise 
From thine own State, and all our 

breadth of realm, 
Where Love and Longing dress thy 

deeds in light. 
Ascends to thee ; and this March 

morn that sees 
Thy Soldier-brother's bridal orange- 
bloom 
Break thro' the j-ews and cypress of 

thy grave, 
And thine Imperial mother smile 

again. 
May send one ray to thee ! and who 

can tell — 
Thou — England's England - loving 

daughter — thou 
Dying so English thou wouldst have 

her iiag 
Borne on thy coffin — where is he can 

swear 
But that some broken gleam from our 

poor earth 
May touch thee, while remembering 

thee, I lay 
At thy pale feet this ballad of the 

deeds 
Of England, and her banner in the 

East ? 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 



Banner of England, not for a season, 

O banner of Britain, hast thou 
Floated in conquering battle or flapt 

to the battle-cry ! 
Never with mightier glory than when 

we had rear'd thee on high 
Flying at top of the roofs in the 

ghastly siege of Lucknow — 
Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, 

but ever we raised thee anew. 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



Frail were the works that defended 

the hold that we held with our 

lives — 
Women and children among us, God 

help them, our children and 

wives ! 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen 

days or for twenty at most. 
"Never surrender, I charge you, but 

every man die at his post ! " 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, 

our Lawrence the best of the 

brave : 



THE DEFENCE OF LUC KNOW. 



583 



Cold were Iiis brows when we kiss'd 

him — we laid him that night 

in his grave. 
" Every man die at his post ! " and 

there liail'd on our houses and 

halls 
Death from their rifle-bullets, and 

death from their cannon-balls, 
Death in our innermost chamber, and 

death at our slight barricade, 
Death while we stood witli the mus- 
ket, and death while we stooiJt 

to the spade, 
Death to the dying, and wounds to 

the wounded, for often there 

fell, 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing 

thro' it, their shot and tlieir 

shell. 
Death — for their spies were among 

us, their marksmen were told 

of our best. 
So that the brute bullet broke thro' 

the brain that could think for 

the rest ; 
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, 

and bullets would rain at our 

feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the 

rebels that girdled us round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from 

over the breadth of a street. 
Death from the heights of the mosque 

and the palace, and death in 

ground ! 
Mine 1 yes, a mine ! Countermine ! 

down, down ! and creep thro' 

the hole ! 
Keep the revolver in hand ! you can 

hear him — themurdorous mole ! 
Quiet, ah ! quiet — wait till the point 

of the pickaxe be thro' ! 
Click with the pick, coming nearer 

and nearer again than before — 
Now let it speak, and you fire, and the 

dark pioneer is no more ; 
And ever upon the toimiost roof our 

banner of England blew ! 



Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many 
times, and it chanced on a day 

Soon as the blast of that underground 
thimderclap echo'd away, 

Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur 
like so many fiends in their 
hell — 

Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on 
volley, and yell upon yell — 

Fiercely on all the defences our myr- 
iad enemy fell. 

What have they done 1 where is it ? 
Out yonder. Guard the Redan ! 

Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the 
Bailey-gate ! storm, and it ran 



Surging and swaying all round us, as 

ocean on every side 
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is 

daily drown'd by the tide — 
So many thousands that if they be bold 

enough, who shall escape ? 
Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall 

know we are soldiers and men ! 
Ready ! take aim at their leaders — 

their masses are gapp'd with 

our grape — 
Backward tJiey reel like the wave, like 

the wave flinging forward again, 
Flying and foil'd at tlie last by the 

handful they could not subdue ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



Handful of men as we were, we were 

English in heart and in limb, 
Strong with the strength of the race 

to command, to obey, to endure, 
Each of us fought as if hope for tlie 

garrison hung but on him ; 
Still — could we watch at all points ? 

we were every day fewer and 

fewer. 
There was a whisper among us, but 

only a whisper that past : 
" Children and wives — if the tigers 

leap into the fold unawares — 
Every man die at his post — and the 

foe may outlive us at last — 
Better to fall by the hands that they 

love, than to fall into theirs ! " 
Roar upon roar in a moment two 

mines by the enemy sprung 
Clove into perilous chasms our walls 

and our poor palisades. 
Rifleman, true is j'our heart, but be 

sure that your hand be as true ! 
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed 

are your flank fusillades — 
Twice do we hurl them to earth from 

the ladders to which they had 

clung, 
Twice from the ditch where they shel- 
ter we drive them with hand- 
grenades ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



Then on another wild morning another 

wild earthquake out-tore 
Clean from our lines of defence ten or 

twelve good paces or more. 
Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden 

there from the light of the 

sun — 
One has leapt up on the beach, crying 

out : "Follow me, follow me! " — 
Mark him — he falls ! then another, 

and Mm too, and down goes he. 



584 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COBHAM. 



Had they been bold enough then, who 

can tell but the traitors had 

won ? 
Boardings and rafters and doors — an 

embrasure ! make way for the 

gun! 
Now double-charge it with grape ! It 

is charged and we fire, and they 

run. 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let 

the dark face have his due ! 
Thanks to the kindly dark faces Avho 

fought with us, faithful and few, 
Fought with the bravest among us, 

and drove them, and smote 

them, and slew, 
That ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner in India blew. 



Men will forget what we suffer and 
not what we do. We can fight ! 

But to be soldier all day and be senti- 
nel all thro' the night — 

Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, 
their lying alarms, 

Bugles and drums in the darkness, and 
shoutings and soundings to 
arms, 

Ever the labor of fifty that had to be 
done by five. 

Ever tlie marvel among us that one 
should be left alive, 

Ever the day with its traitorous death 
from the loopholes around. 

Ever the night with its coffinless 
corpse to be laid in the ground. 

Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a 
deluge of cataract skies. 

Stench of old offal decaying, and in- 
finite torment of flies. 

Thoughts of the breezes of May blow- 
ing over an English field. 

Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound 
that icoidd not be heal'd. 

Lopping away of the limb by the pit- 
iful-pitiless knife, — 

Torture and trouble in vain, — for it 
never could save us a life. 

Valor of delicate women who tended 
the hospital bed, 

Horror of women in travail among 
the dying and dead, 

Grief for our perishing children, and 
never a moment for grief. 

Toil and inelfable weariness, faltering 
hopes of relief, 

Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butch- 
er'd for all that we knew — 

Then day and night, day and night, 
coming down on the still-shat- 
ter'd walls 

Millions of musket-bullets, and thou- 
sands of ' cannon-balls — 

But ever upon the topmost roof our 
banner of England blew. 



Hark cannonade, fusillade ! is it true 

what was told by the scout, 
Outram and Havelock breaking their 

way through the fell mutineers ? 
Surely the jiibroch of Europe is nng- 

ing again in our ears ! 
All on a sudden the garrison utter a 

jubilant shout, 
Havelock's glorious Highlanders an- 
swer with conquering cheers, 
Sick from the hospital echo them, 

women and children come out, 
Blessing the wholesome white faces 

of Havelock's good fusileers, 
Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the 

Highlander wet with their tears! 
Dance to the pibroch ! — saved ! we are 

saved ! — is it you ? is it yovi 1 
Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved 

by the blessing of Heaven ! 
" Hold it for fifteen days ! " we have 

held it for eighty-seven ! 
And ever aloft on tlie palace roof the 

old banner of England blew. 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD 

COBHAM. 

(in wales.) 

My friend should meet me somewhere 

hereabout 
To take me to that hiding in the hills. 

I have broke their cage, no gilded 
one, I trow — 

I read no more the prisoner's mute wail 

Scribbled or carved upon the pitiless 
stone ; 

I find hard rocks, hard life, hard cheer, 
or none. 

For I am emptier than a friar's brains ; 

But God is with me in this wilderness, 

These wet black passes and foam- 
churning chasms — 

And God's free air, and hope of bet- 
ter things. 

I would I knew their speech ; not 
now to glean. 

Not now — I hope to do it — some 
scatter'd ears. 

Some ears for Christ in this wild field 
of Wales — 

But, bread, merely for bread. This 
tongue that wagg'd 

They said with such lieretical arro- 
gance 

Against the proud archbishop Arun- 
del— 

So much God's cause was fluent in it 
— is here 

But as a Latin Bible to the crowd ; 



SIR yOHX OLDCASTLE, LORD COBIJAM. 



585 



" Bara ! " — what use 1 The Shepherd, 

when I speak, 
Vailing a sudden eyelid with his hard 
" Dim Saesneg " passes, wroth at 

things of old — 
No fault of mine. Had he God's word 

in Welsli 
He might be kindlier : happily come 

the day ! 

Not least art thou, thou little Betlile- 

liem 
In Judah,f orin thee the Lord was born; 
Nor thou in Britain, little Lutterworth, 
Least, for in thee the word was born 

again. 



Heaven-sweet Evangel, ever-living 

word, 
Who whilome spakest to the South in 

Greek 
About the soft Mediterranean shores, 
And tlien in Latin to the Latin crowd, 
As good need was — thou hast come 

to talk our isle. 
Hereafter thou, fulfilling Pentecost, 
Must learn to use the tongues of all 

the world. 
Yet art thou thine own witness that 

thou bringest 
Not peace, a sword, a fire. 

What did he say. 
My frighted Wiclif-jireacher whom I 

crost 
In flying hither ? that one night a 

crowd 
Throng'd the waste field about the 

city gates : 
The king was on them suddenly with 

a host. 
Why there ? they came to hear their 

preacher. Then 
Some cried on Cobham, on the good 

Lord Cobham ; 
Ay, for they love me ! but the king — 

nor voice 
Nor finger raised against him — took 

and hang'd, 
Took, hang'd and burnt — how many 

— thirty-nine — 
Call'd it rebellion — hang'd, poor 

friends, as rebels 
And burn'd alive as heretics ! fcr 

your Priest 
Labels — to take the king along with 

him — 
All heresy, treason : but to call men 

traitors 
May make men traitors. 

Rose of Lancaster, 
Red in thy birth, redder with house- 
hold war, 
Now reddest with the blood of holy 

men, 
Redder to be, red rose of Lancaster — 



If somewhere in the North, as Rumor 
sang 

Fluttering the hawks of this crown- 
lusting line — 

By firth and loch thy silver sister 
grow,^ 

That were my rose, there my alle- 
giance due. 

Self-starved, they say — nay, mur 
der'd, doubtless dead. 

So to this king I cleaved : my friend 
was he, 

Once my fast friend: I would have 
given my life 

To help his own from scathe, a thou- 
sand lives 

To save his soul. He might have 
come to learn 

Our Wiclif's learning: but the worldly 
Priests 

Who fear the king's hard common- 
sense should find 

What rotten piles uphold their mason- 
work. 

Urge him to foreign war. O had he 
will'd 

I might have stricken a lusty stroke 
for him. 

But he would not ; far lieA'er led my 
friend 

Back to the pure and universal 
church. 

But he would not : whether that heir- 
less flaw 

In his throne's title make him feel so 
frail. 

He leans on Antichrist ; or that his 
mind. 

So quick, so capable in soldiership, 

In matters of the faith, alas tlie wliile! 

More worth than all the kingdoms of 
this world, 

Runs in the rut, a coward to the 
Priest. 

Burnt — good Sir Roger Acton, my 
dear friend ! 

Burnt too, my faithful preacher, 
Beverley ! 

Lord give thou power to thy two wit- 
nesses ! 

Lest the false faith make merry over 
them ! 

Two — nay but thirty-nine have risen 
and stand. 

Dark with the smoke of human sacri- 
fice. 

Before thy light, and cry continually — 

Cry — against whom % 

Him, who should bear the sword 

Of Justice — what ! the kingly, kindly 
boy; 

Who took the world so easily hereto- 
fore, 

1 Richard II. 



5S6 



S//^ yOHM OLDCASTLE, LORD COB HAM. 



My boon companion, tavern-fellow — 

him 
Who gibed and japed — in many a 

merry tale 
That shook our sides — at Pa-doners 

Sumnioners, 
Friars, absolution-sellers, monkeries 
And nunneries, when the wild hour 

and the wine 
Had set the wits aflame. 

Harry of Monmouth, 
Or Amurath of the East ? 

Better to sink 
Thy tleurs-de-lys in slime again, and 

fling 
Thy royalty back into the riotous fits 
Of wine and harlotry — thy shame, 

and mine. 
Thy comrade — than to persecute the 

Lord, 
And play the Saul that never will be 

Paul. 



Burnt, burnt! and while this mitred 

Arundel 
Dooms our unlicensed preacher to 

the flame. 
The mitre-sanction'd harlot draws his 

clerks 
Into the suburb — their hard celibacy, 
Sworn to be veriest ice of pureness, 

molten 
Into adulterous living, or such crimes 
As holy Paul — a shame to speak of 

them — 
Among the heathen — 

Sanctuary granted 
To bandit, thief, assassin — yea to him 
Who hacks his mother's throat — 

denied to him. 
Who finds the Saviour in his mother 

tongue. 
The Gospel, the Priest's pearl, flung 

down to swine — 
The swine, lay-men, lay-women, who 

Avill come, 
God willing, to outlearn the filthy friar. 
Ah rather, Lord, than that thy 

Gespel, meant 
To course and range thro' all the 

world, should be 
Tether'd to these dead pillars of the 

Church — 
Rather than so, if thou wilt have 

it so, 
Burst vein, snap sinew, and crack 

heart, and life 
Pass in the fire of Babylon ! but how 

long, 
O Lord, how long ! 

My friend should meet me here. 
Here is the copse, the fountain and — 

a Cross ! 
To thee, dead wood, I bow not head 

nor knees. 



Rather to thee, green boscage, work 
of God, 

Black holly, and white-flower'd way- 
faring-tree ! 

Rather to thee, thou living water, 
drawn 

By this good Wiclif mountain down 
from heaven. 

And speaking clearly in thy native 
tongue — 

No Latin — He that thirsteth, come 
and drink ! 



Eh ! how I anger'd Arundel asking 

me 
To worship Holy Cross ! I spread 

mine arms, 
God's work, I said, a cross of flesh 

and blood 
And holier. That was heresy. (My 

good friend 
By this time should be with me.) 

" Images ? " 
" Bury them as God's truer images 
Are daily buried." " Heresy. — 

Penance ? " " Fast, 
Hairshirt and scourge — nay, let a 

man repent. 
Do penance in his heart, God hears 

him." " Heresy — 
Not shriven, not saved ? " " What 

profits an ill Priest 
Between me and my God ? I would 

not spurn 
Good counsel of good friends, but 

shrive myself 
No, not to an Apostle." " Heresy." 
(My friend is long in coming.) " Pil- 
grimages ? " 
Drink, bagpipes, revelling, devil's- 

dances, vice. 
The poor man's money gone to fat the 

friar. 
Who reads of begging saints in Scrip- 
ture ? " — " Heresy " — 
(Hath he been here — not found me 

— gone again ■? 
Have I mislearnt our place of meet- 
ing ? ) " Bread — 
Bread left after the blessing ? " how 

they stared, 
That was their main test-question — 

glared at me ! 
" He veil'd himself in flesh, and now 

He veils 
His flesh in bread, body and bread 

together." 
Then rose the howl of all the cassock'd 

wolves, 
" No bread, no bread. God's body ! " 

Archbishop, Bishop, 
Priors, Canons, Friars, bellringers, 

Parish-clerks — 
" No bread, no bread ! " — " Authority 

of the Church, 



COLUMBUS. 



587 



Power of the keys!" — Then I, G^xi 

help me, I 
So mock'd, so spurn'd, so baited two 

whole days — 
I lost myself and fell from evenness, 
And rail'd at all the Popes, that ever 

since 
Sylvester shed the venom of world- 
wealth 
Into the church, had only prov'n 

themselves 
Poisoners, murderers. Well — God 

pardon all — 
Me, them, and all the world — yea, 

that proud Priest, 
That mock-meek mouth of utter Anti- 
christ, 
That traitor to King Richard and the 

truth. 
Who rose and doom'd me to the fire. 

Amen ! 
Nay, I can burn, so that the Lord of 

life 
Be by me in my death. 

Those three ! the fourth 
Was like the Son of God ! Not burnt 

were they. 
On them the smell of burning had not 

past. 
That was a miracle to convert the king. 
These Pharisees,thisCaiaphas- Arundel 
What miracle could turn ? He here 

again. 
He thwarting their traditions of Him- 
self, 
He would be found a heretic to Him- 
self, 
And doom'd to burn alive. 

So, caught, I burn. 
Burn ? heathen men have borne as 

much as this. 
For freedom, or the sake of those they 

loved, 
Or some less cause, some cause far 

less than mine ; 
For every other cause is less than 

mine. 
The moth will singe her wings, and 

singed return, 
Her love of light quenching her fear 

of pain — 
How now, my soul, we do not heed the 

fire"? 
Faint - hearted ? tut ! — faint - stom - 

ach'd ! faint as I am, 
God willing, I will burn for Him. 

Who comes ? 
A thousand marks are set upon my 

head. 
Friend 1 — foe perhaps — a tussle for 

it then ! 
Nay, but my friend. Thou art so well 

disguised, 
I knew thee not. Hast thou brought 

bread witli thee ? 
I have not broken bread for fifty hours. 



None ? I am damn'd already by the 
Priest 

For holding there was bread where 
bread was none — 

No bread. My friends await me yon- 
der ? Yes. 

Lead on then. Up the mountain ? 
Is it far ? 

Not far. Climb first and reach me 
down thy hand. 

I am not like to die for lack of bread. 

For I must live to testify by fire.^ 



COLUMBUS. 

Chains, my good lord : in your raised 
brows I read 

Some wonder at our chamber orna- 
ments. 

We brought this iron from our isles 
of gold. 

Does the king know you deign to 

visit him 
Whom once he rose from off his 

tlirone to greet 
Before his people, like his brother 

king ? 
I saw your face that morning in tlie 

crowd. 

At Barcelona — tho' you were not 

then 
So bearded. Yes. ' The city deck'd 

herself 
To meet me, roar'd my name ; the 

king, the queen 
Bade me be seated, speak, and tell 

them all 
The story of my voyage, and while I 

spoke 
The crowd's roar fell as atthe " Peace, 

be still ! " 
And when I ceased to speak, the king, 

the queen, 
Sank from their thrones, and melted 

into tears, 
And knelt, and lifted hand asd heart 

and voice 
In praise to God who led me thro' the 

waste. 
And then the great " Laudamus " rose 

to heaven. 

Chains for the Admiral of the 

Ocean ! chains 
For him who gave a new heaven, a 

new earth. 
As holy John had prophesied of me. 
Gave glory and more empire to the 

kings 
Of Spain than all their battles ! chains 

for him 
' He was burnt on Christmas Day, 1417. 



588 



COLUMBUS. 



Who push'd his prows into the setting 

sun, 
And made West East, and sail'd the 

Dragon's mouth. 
And came upon the Mountain of the 

World, 
And saw the rivers roll from Paradise ! 

Chains ! we are Admirals of the 

Ocean, we, 
We and our sons for ever. Ferdinand 
Hath sign'd it and our Holy Catholic 

queen — 
Of the Ocean — of the Indies — Ad- 
mirals we — 
Our title, which we never mean to 

yield, 
Our guerdon not alone for what we 

did, 
But our amends for all we might have 

done — 
The vast occasion of our stronger 

life — 
Eighteen long years of waste, seven in 

your Spain, 
Lost, showing courts and kings a truth 

the babe 
Will suck in with his milk hereafter 

— earth 
A sphere. 

Were you at Salamanca ? No. 
We fronted there the learning of all 

Spain, 
All their cosmogonies, their astrono- 
mies : 
Guess-work tliey guess'd it, but the 

golden guess 
Is morning-star to the full round of 

truth. 
No guess-work ! I was certain of my 

goal ; 
Some thought it heresy, but that 

would not hold. 
King David call'd the heavens a hide, 

a tent 
Spread over earth, and so this earth 

was flat : 
Some cited old Lactantius : could it be 
That trees grew downward, rain fell 

upward, men 
Walk'd like the fly on ceilings 1 and 

besides. 
The great Augustine wrote that none 

could breathe 
Within the zone of heat ; so might 

there be 
Two Adams, two mankinds, and that 

was clean 
Against God's word : thus was I 

beaten back. 
And chiefly to my sorrow by the 

Church, 
And thought to turn my face from 

Spain, appeal 



Once more to France or England; 
but our Queen 

Recall'd me, for at last their High- 
nesses 

Were half-assured this earth might 
be a sphere. 

All glory to the all-blessed Trinity, 
All glory to the mother of our Lord, 
And Holy Church, from whom I never 

swerved 
Not even by one hair's-breadth of 

heresy, 
I have accomplish'd what I came to do. 

Not yet — not all — last night a 

dream — I sail'd 
On my first voyage, harass'd by the 

frights 
Of my first crew, their curses and 

their groans. 
The great flame-banner borne by Tene- 

riffe. 
The compass, like an old friend false 

at last 
In our most need, appall'd them, and 

the wind 
Still westward, and the weedy seas — 

at length 
The landbird, and the branch with 

berries on it, 
The carven staff — and last the light, 

the light 
On Guanahani! but I changed the 

name ; 
San Salvador I call'd it; and the 

light 
Grew as I gazed, and brought out a 

broad sky 
Of dawning over — not those alien 

palms. 
The marvel of that fair new nature — 

not 
That Indian isle, but our most ancient 

East 
Moriah with Jerusalem ; and I saw 
The glory of the Lord flash up, and 

beat 
Thro' all the homely town from jas- 
per, sapi)hire. 
Chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sar- 

dius. 
Chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, 
Jacynth, and amethyst — and those 

twelve gates. 
Pearl — and I woke, and thought — 

death — I shall die — 
I am written in the Lamb's own Book 

of Life 
To walk within the glory of the Lord 
Sunless and moonless, utter light — 

but no ! 
The Lord had sent this bright, strange 

dream to me 
To mind me of the secret vow I made 



COLUMBUS. 



589 



When Spain was waging war against 

the Moor — 
I strove myself with Spain against 

the Moor. 
There came two voices from the Sep- 
ulchre, 
Two friars crying that if Spain should 

oust 
The Moslem from her limit, he, the 

fierce 
Soldan of Egypt, would break down 

and raze 
The blessed tomb of Christ; whereon 

I vow'd 
That, if our Princes harken'd to my 

prayer, 
Whatever wealth I brought from that 

new world 
Should, in this old, be consecrate to 

lead 
A new crusade against the Saracen, 
And free the Holy Sepulchre from 

thrall. 

Gold ? I had brought your Princes 

gold enough 
If left alone ! Being but a Genovese, 
I am handled worse than had I been a 

Moor, 
And breach'd the belting wall of 

Cambalu, 
And given the Great Khan's palaces 

to the ISIoor, 
Or clutch'd the sacred crown of Pres- 

ter John, 
And cast it to the Moor : but had I 

brought 
From Solomon's now-recover'd Ophir 

all 
The gold that Solomon's navies car- 
ried home. 
Would that have gilded me ? Blue 

blood of Spain, 
Tho' quartering your own royal arms 

of Spain, 
I have not : blue blood and black blood 

of Spain, 
The noble and the convict of Castile, 
Howl'd me from Hispaniola ; for you 

know 
The flies at home, that ever swarm 

about 
And cloud the highest heads, and 

murmur down 
Truth in the distance — these out- 

buzz'd me so 
That even our prudent king, our right- 
eous queen — 
I pray'd them being so calumniated 
They would commission one of weight 

and worth 
To judge between my slander'd self 

and me — 
Fonseca mymain enemyat their court. 
They send me out his tool, Bovadilla, 

one 



As ignorant and impolitic as a beast — 

Blockish irreverence, brainless greed 
— who sack'd 

My dwelling, seized upon my papers, 
loosed 

My captives, feed the rebels of the 
crown, 

Sold the crown-farms for all but noth- 
ing, gave 

All but free leave for all to M'ork the 
mines. 

Drove me and my good brothers home 
in chains. 

And gathering ruthless gold — a sin- 
gle piece 

Weigh'd nigh four thousand Castil- 
lanos — so 

They tell me — weigh'd him down 
into the abysm — 

The hurricane of the latitude on him 
fell, 

The seas of our discovering over-roll 

Him and his gold ; the frailer caravel, 

With what was mine, came happily to 
the shore. 

Therevi&s a glimmering of God's hand. 

And God 
Hath more than glimmer'd on me. 

my lord, 
I swear to you I heard his voice be- 
tween 
The thunders in the black Veragua 

|U nights, 
"%} soul of little faith, slow to believe ! 
Have I not been about thee from thy 

birth ? 
Given thee the keys of the great 

( )cean-sea ? 
Set thee in light till time shall be no 

more 1 
Is it I who have deceived thee or the 

world ? 
Endure ! thou hast done so well for 

men, that men 
Cry out against thee : was it otherwise 
With mine own Son 1 " 

And more than once in days 
Of doubt and cloud and storm, when 

drowning hope 
Sank all but out of sight, I heard his 

voice, 
" Be not cast down. I lead thee by 

the hand, 
Fear not." And I shall hear his 

voice again — 
I know that he has led me all my life, 
I am not yet too old to work his will — 
His voice again. 

Still for all that, my lord, 
j^ lying here bedridden and alone, 
Cast off, put by, scouted by court and 
king — 



590 



COLUMBUS. 



The first discoverer starves — his fol- 
lowers, all 
Flower into fortune — our world's way 

— and I, 
Without a roof that I can call mine 

own, 
With scarce a coin to buy a meal 

withal, 
And seeing what a door for scoundrel 

scum 
I open'd to the West, thro' which the 

lust, 
Villany, violence, avarice, of your 

Spain 
Pour'd in on all those happy naked 

isles — 
Their kindly native princes slain or 

slaved. 
Their wives and children Spanish con- 
cubines, 
Their innocent hospitalities quench'd 

in blood. 
Some dead of hunger, some beneath 

the scourge. 
Some over-labor'd, some by their own 

hands, — 
Yea, the dear mothers, crazing Nature, 

kill 
Their babies at the breast for hate of 

Spain — 
Ah God, the harmless people whom 

we found 
In Hispaniola's island-Paradise ! 
Who took us for the very Gods from 

Heaven, > t 

And we have sent them very fiends 

from Hell ; 
And I myself, myself not blameless, I 
Could sometimes wish I had never led 

the way. 

Only the ghost of our great Catholic 
Queen 

Smiles on me, saying, " Be tliou com- 
forted ! 

This creedless people will be brought 
to Christ 

And own the holy governance of 
Rome." 

But who could dream that we, who 
bore the Cross 

Thither, were excommunicated there, 

For curbing crimes that scandalized 
the Cross, 

By him, the Catalonian Minorite, 

Rome's Vicar in our Indies ? who be- 
lieve 

These hard memorials of our truth to 
Spain 

Clung closer to us, for a longer term. 

Than any f rien^ of ours at Court ? 
and yet 

Pardon — too harsh, unjust. I am 
rack'd with pains. 



You see that I have hung them 1 y 
my bed. 
And I will have them buried in my 
grave. 

Sir, in that flight of ages which are 

God's 
Own voice to justify the dead — per- 
chance 
Spain once the most chivalric race on 

earth, 
Spain then the mightiest, wealthiest 

realm on earth. 
So made by me, may seek to unbury 

me, 
To lay me in some shrine of this old 

Spain, 
Or in that vaster Spain I leave to 

Spain. 
Then some one standing by my grave 

will say, 
"Behold the bones of Christopher 

Colon " — ■ 
"Ay, but the chains, what do thvy 

mean — the chains ? " — 
I sorrow for that kindly child of Spain 
Who then will have to answer, " These 

same chains 
Bound these same bones back thro' 

the Atlantic sea. 
Which he imchain'd for all the world 

to come." 

O Queen of Heaven who seest the 

souls in Hell 
And purgatory, I suffer all as much 
As they do — for the moment. Stay, 

my son 
Is here anon : my son will speak for 

me 
Ablier than I can in these spasms that 

grind 
Bone against bone. You will not. 

One last word. 

You move about the Court, I pray 

you tell 
King Ferdinand who plays with me, 

that one, 
Whose life has been no plaj'^ with him 

and his 
Hidalgos — shipwrecks, famines, fe- 
vers, fights. 
Mutinies, treacheries — wink'd at, and 

condoned — 
That I am loyal to him till the death. 
And ready — tho' our Holy Catholic 

Queen, 
Who fain had pledged her jewels on 

my first voyage. 
Whose hope was mine to spread the 

Catholic faith. 
Who wept with me when I return'd 

in cliAins, 
Who sits beside the blessed Virgin 

now. 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUXE. 



591 



To whom I send my prayer by night 

and day — 
She is gone — but you will tell the 

King, that I, 
Rack'd as I am with gout, and 

wrench'd with pains 
Gain'd in the service of His Highness, 

yet 
Am ready to sail forth on one last 

voyage, 
And readier, if the King would hear, 

to lead 
One last crusade against the Saracen, 
And save the Holy Sepulchre from 

thrall. 

Going ■? I am old and slighted : you 

have dared 
Somewhat perhaps in coming 1 \Vi\ 

poor thanks ! 
I am but an alien and a Genovese. 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE 

(founded on an IRISH LEGEND. 
A.D. 700.) 



I WAS the chief of the race — he had 

stricken my father dead — 
But I gather'd my fellows together, I 

swore I would strike off his 

head. 
Each one of them look'd like a king, 

and was noble in birth as in 

worth. 
And each of them boasted lie sprang 

from the oldest race upon earth. 
Each was as brave in the fight as the 

bravest hero of song. 
And each of them liefer had died than 

have done one another a wrong. 
He lived on an isle in the ocean — we 

sail'd on a Friday morn — 
He that had slain my father the day 

before I was born. 



And we came to the isle in the ocean, 
and there on the shore was he. 

But a sudden blast blew us out and 
away thro' a boundless sea. 



And we came to the Silent Isle that 

we never had touch'd at before, 
Where a silent ocean always broke on 

a silent shore, 
And the brooks glitter'd on in the light 

without sound, and the long 

waterfalls 
Pour'd in a thunderless plunge to the 

base of the mountain walls, 



And the poplar and cypress unshaken 

by storm tiourish'd up beyond 

sight. 
And the pine shot aloft from the crag 

to an unbelievable height. 
And high in the heaven above it there 

flickei''d a songless lark, 
And the cock couldn't crow, and the 

bull couldn't low, and the dog 

couldn't bark. 
And round it we went, and thro' it, but 

never a murmur, a breath — 
It was all of it fair as life, it was all 

of it quiet as death. 
And we hated tlie beautiful Isle, for 

whenever we strove to speak 
Our voices were thinner and fainter 

than any flittermouse-shrick ; 
And the men that were mighty of 

tongue and could raise such 

a battle-cry 
That a hundred who heard it would 

rush on a thousand lances and 

die — 
they to be dumb'd by the charm ! 

— so fluster'd with anger were 

they 
They almost fell on each other ; but 

after we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle of Shouting, 
we landed, a score of wild birds 

Cried from the topmost summit with 
human voices and words ; 

Once in an hour they cried, and when- 
ever their voices peal'd 

The steer fell down at the plow and 
the harvest died from the field. 

And the men dropt dead in the valleys 
and half of the cattle went lame. 

And the roof sank in on the hearth, 
and the dwelling broke into 
flame ; 

And the shouting of these wild birds 
ran into the hearts of my crew. 

Till they shouted along with the shout- 
ing and seized one another and 
slew ; 

But I drew them the one from the 
other ; I saw that we could not 
stay. 

And we left the dead to the birds and 
we sail'd with our wounded 
away. 



And we came to the Isle of Flowers : 
their breath met us out on the 
seas, 

For the Spring and the middle Sum- 
mer sat each on the lap of the 
breeze ; 

And the red passion-flower to the 
cliffs, and the dark-blue cle- 
matis, clung. 



592 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 



And starr'd with a myriad blossom 

the long convolvulus hung ; 
And the topmost sjiire of the moun- 
tain was lilies in lieu of snow, 
And the lilies like glaciers winded 

down, running out below 
Thro' the fire of the tulip and poppy, 

the blaze of gorse, and the 

blush 
Of millions of roses that sprang with- 
out leaf or a thorn from the 

bush ; 
And the whole isle-side flashing down 

from the peak without ever a 

tree 
Swept like a torrent of gems from the 

sky to the blue of the sea ; 
And we roU'd upon capes of crocus 

and vaunted our kith and our 

kin, 
And we wallow'd in beds of lilies, 

and chanted the triumph of 

Finn, 
Till each like a golden image was 

pollen'd from head to feet 
And each was as dry as a cricket, 

with thirst in the middle-day 

heat. 
Blossom and blossom, and promise of 

blossom, but never a fruit ! 
And we hated the Flowering Isle, as 

we hated the isle that was mute, 
And we tore up the flowers by the 

million and flung them in bight 

and bay, 
And we left but a naked rock, and in 

anger we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle of Fruits : 

all round from the cliffs and 

the capes. 
Purple or amber, dangled a hundred 

fathom of grapes. 
And the warm melon lay like a little 

sun on the tawny sand. 
And the fig ran up from the beach 

and rioted over the land, 
And the mountain arose like a jew- 

ell'd throne thro' the fragrant 

air, 
Glowing with all-color'd plums and 

with golden masses of pear, 
And the crimson and scarlet of berries 

that flamed upon bine and vine, 
But in every berry and fruit was the 

poisonous pleasure of wine ; 
And the peak of the mountain was 

apples, the hugest that ever 

were seen. 
And they ptest, as they grew, on each 

other, with hardly a leaflet be- 
tween, 
And all of them redder than rosiest 

health or than utterest shame, 



And setting, when Even descended, 

the very sunset aflame ; 
And we stay'd three days, and we 

gorged and we madden'd, till 

every one drew 
His sword on his fellow to slay him, 

and ever they struck and they 

slew ; 
And myself, I had eaten but sparely, 

and fought till I sunder'd the 

fray. 
Then I bade them remember my 

father's death, and we sail'd 

away. 



And we came to the Isle of Fire : we 

were lured by the light from 

afar, 
"'^'or the peak sent up one league of 

fire to the Northern Star ; 
Lured by the glare and the blare, but 

scarcely could stand upright. 
For the whole isle shudder'd and 

shook like a man in a mortal 

affright ; 
We were giddy besides with the fruits 

we had gorged, and so crazed 

that at last 
There Avere some leap'd into the fire ; 

and away we sail'd, and we 

past 
Over that undersea isle, where the 

water is clearer than air : 
Down we look'd : what a garden ! 

bliss, what a Paradise there ! 
Towers of a happier time, low down 

in a rainbow deep 
Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal 

sleep ! 
And three of the gentlest and best of 

my people, whate'er I could 

say. 
Plunged head down in the sea, and 

the Paradise trembled away. 



And we came to the Bounteous Isle, 

where the heavens lean low on 

the land. 
And ever at dawn from the cloud 

glitter'd o'er us a sunbright 

hand. 
Then it open'd and dropt at the side 

of each man, as he rose from 

his rest. 
Bread enough for his need till the 

laborless day dipt under the 

West; 
And we wander'd about it and thro' 

it. never was time so 

good ! 
And we sang of the triumphs of 

Finn, and the boast of our 

ancient blood, 



DE PROFUNDIS. 



593 



And we gazed at the wandering wave 

as we sat by the gurgle of 

springs, 
And we chanted the songs of the 

Bards and the glories of fairy 

kings ; 
But at length we began to be weary, 

to sigh, and to stretch and 

yawn, 
Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and 

the sunbright hand of the 

dawn. 
For there was not an enemy near, Init 

the whole green Isle was our 

own, 
And we took to inlaying at ball, and 

we took to throwing the stone. 
And we took to playing at battle, but 

that was a perilous play, 
For the passion of the battle was in 

us, we slew and we sail'd 

away. 



And we came to the Isle of "Witches 

and heard their musical cry — 
" Come to us, ( ) come, come " in the 

stormy red of a skj^ 
Dashing the fires and the shadows of 

dawn on the beautiful shapes, 
For a wild witch naked as heaven 

stood on each of the loftiest 

capes. 
And a hundred ranged on the rock 

like white sea-birds in a row, 
And a hundred gamboU'd and pranced 

on the wrecks in the sand be- 
low, 
And a hundred splash'd from the 

ledges, and bosom'd the burst 

of the spray, 
But I knew we should fall on each 

other, and hastily sail'd away. 



And we came in an evil time to the 

Isle of the Double Towers, 
One was of smooth-cut stone, one 

carved all over with flowers. 
But an earthquake always moved in 

the hollows under the dells, 
And they shock'd on each other and 

butted each other with clashing 

of bells, 
And the da^vs flew out of the Towers 

and jangled and wrangled in 

vain. 
And the clash and boom of the bells 

rang into the heart and the brain, 
Till the passion of battle was on us, 

and all took sides with the 

Towers, 
There were some for the clean-cut 

stone, there were more for the 

carven flowers, 



And the wrathful thunder of God 
peal'd over us all the day. 

For the one half slew the other, and 
after we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle of a Saint 

who had sail'd with St. Brendan 

of yore. 
He had lived ever since on the Isle 

and his winters were fifteen score, 
And his voice was low as from other 

worlds, and his eyes Avere 

sweet. 
And his white hair sank to his heels 

and his white beard fell to his 

feet. 
And he spake to me, " Maeldune, 

let be this purpose of thine ! 
Remember the words of the Lord 

when he told us ' Vengeance is 

mine ! ' 
His fathers have slain thy fathers 

■ in war or in single strife, 
Thy fathers have slain his fathers, 

each taken a life for a life, 
Thy father had slain his father, how 

long shall the murder last % 
Go back to the Isle of Finn and suifer 

the Past to be Past." 
And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard 

and we pray'd as we heard him 

pray, 
And the Holy man he assoil'd us, and 

sadly we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle we were blown 

from, and there on the shore 

was he. 
The man that had slain my father. I 

saw liira and let him be. 
O weary was I of the travel, the 

trouble, the strife and the sin, 
When I landed again, with a tithe of 

my men, on the Isle of Finn. 



DE PROFUNDIS: 

THE TWO GREETINGS. 



Out of the deep, my cliild, out of the 
deep. 

Where all that was to be, in all that 
was, 

Whirl'd for a million seons thro' the 
vast 

Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddy- 
ing light — 

Out of the deep, my child, out of the 
deep, 



594 



PREFATORY SONNET. 



Thro' all this changing world of 

changeless law, 
And every phase of ever-heightening 

life, 
And nine long months of antenatal 

gloom. 
With this last moon, this crescent — 

iier dark orb 
Touch'd with earth's light — thou 

comest, darling boy ; 
Our own; a babe in lineament and 

limb 
Perfect, and prophet of the perfect 

man; 
Whose face and form are hers and 

mine in one, 
Indissolubly married like our love ; 
Live, and be happy in thyself, and 

serve 
This mortal race thy kin so well, that 

men 
May bless thee as we bless thee, O 

young life 
Breaking with laughter from the dark; 

and may 
The fated channel where thy motion 

liA'-es 
Be prosperously shaped, and sway thy 

course 
Along tlie years of haste and random 

youth 
Unshatter'd ; then full-current thro' 

full man ; 
And last in kindly curves, with gen- 
tlest fall, 
By quiet fields, a slowly-dying power. 
To that last deep where we and thou 

are still. 

II. 



Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep. 
From that great deep, before our 

world begins, 
Whereon the Spirit of God moves as 

he will — 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep. 
From tliat true world within the world 

we sec. 
Whereof our world is but the bound- 
ing sliore — 
Out of the deep, Spirit, out of the deep, 
With this ninth moon, that sends the 

hidden sun 
Down yon dark sea, thou comest, 

darling boy. 

II. 
For in the world, wliich is not ours. 

They said 
"Let us make man " and that which 

should be man. 
From that one light no man can look 

upon, 



Drew to this shore lit by the suns and 

moons 
And all the shadows. dear Spirit 

half-lost 
In thine own shadow and this fleshlj' 

sign 
That thou art thou — who wailest 

being born 
And banish'd into mystery, and the 

pain 
Of this divisible-indivisible world 
Among the numerable-innumerable 
Sun, sun, and sun, thro' finite-infinite 

space 
In finite-infinite Time — our mortal 

veil 
And shatter'd phantom of that infinite 

One, 
Who made thee unconceivably Thy- 
self 
Out of His whole World-self and all 

in all — 
Live thou ! and of the grain and husk, 

the grape 
And ivyberry, choose ; and still depart 
From death to deatla thro' life and 

life, and find 
Nearer and ever nearer Him, wlio 

wrought 
Not Matter, nor the finite-infinite, 
But tliis main-miracle, that thou art 

thou, 
With power on thine own act and on 

the world. 

THE HUMAN CRY. 
I. 

Hallowed be Thy name — Halle- 
luiah ! — 

Infinite Ideality ! 

Immeasurable Reality ! 

Infinite Personality! 
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! 



We feel we are nothing — for all is 

Thou and in Thee ; 
We feel we are something — that also 

has come from Thee ; 
We know we are nothing — but Tliou 

wilt help us to be. 
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! 



PREFATORY SONNET 

TO THE " NINETEENTH CENTURV." 

Those that of late had fleeted far and 

fast 
To touch all shores, now leaving to 

the skill 
Of others theiroldcraft seaworthystill, 
Have charter'd this; where, mindful 

of the past, 



TO THE REV. IF. H. BROOKFIELD. 



595 



Our true co-mates regather round the 

mast; 
Of diverse tongue, but with a com- 
mon will 
Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil 
And crocus, to i)ut forth and brave 

the blast ; 
For some, descending from the sacred 

peak 
Of hoar high-templed Faith, have 

leagued again 
Their lot with ours to rove the world 

about ; 
And some are wilder comrades, sworn 

to seek 
If any golden harbor be for men 
In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of 

Doubt. 



TO THE EEV. W. H. BROOK- 
FIELD. 

Brooks, for they call'd you so that 

kncM' you best, 
Old Brooks, who loved so well to 

mouth my rhymes, 
How oft we two have heard St. Mary's 

chimes ! 
How oft the Cantab supper, host and 

guest, 
Would echo helpless laughter to your 

• jest ! 
How oft with him we paced that walk 

of lines, 
Him, the lost light of those dawn- 
golden times. 
Who loved you well ! Now both are 

gone to rest. 
You man of humorous-melancholy 

mark. 
Dead of some inward agony — is it so ? 
Our kindlier, trustier Jaques, past 

away ! 
I cannot laud this life, it looks so dark : 
'S.KMs vvap — dream of a shadow, go — 
God bless you. I shall joinyou in a day. 



MONTENEGRO. 

They rose to where their sovran eagle 
sails. 



They kept their faith, their freedom, 

on the height, 
Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by d&y 

and night 
Against the Turk ; whose inroad no- 
where scales 
Their headlong passes, but his foot- 
step fails. 
And red with blood the Crescent reels 

from fight 
Before their dauntless hundreds, in 

prone flight 
By thousands down the crags and 

thro' the vales. 
O smallest among peoples ! rough 

rock-throne 
Of Freedom ! warriors beating back 

the swarm 
Of Turkish Islam for five hundred 

years, 
Great Tsernogora ! never since thine 

own 
Black ridges drew the cloud and brake 

the storm 
Has breathed a race of mightier 

mountaineers. 



TO VICTOR HUGO. 
Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance, 
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes 

and fears, 
French of the French, and Lord of 

human tears ; 
Child-lover; Bard whose fame-lit 

laurels glance 
Darkening the wreaths of all that 

would advance, 
Beyond our strait, their claim to be 

thy peers ; 
Weird Titan by thy winter weight of 

years 
As yet unbroken. Stormy voice of 

France ! 
Who dost not love our England — so 

they say ; 
I know not — England, France, all 

man to be 
Will make one people ere man's race 

be run : 
And I, desiring that diviner day. 
Yield thee full thanks for thy full 

courtesy 
To younger England in the boy my 

son. 



596 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 



TRANSLATIONS, ETC. 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 

Constantinus, King of the Scots, after 
having sworn allegiance to Athelstau, allied 
liiiuself with the Danes of Ireland under 
Aulaf, and invading England, was defeated 
by Athelstan and his brother Edmund with 
ereat slaughter at Brunanburh in the year 
937. 

I. 
^Athelstax King, 
Lord among Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower and 
Baron of Barons, 
He with liis brother, 
Edmund Atheling, 
Gaining a lifelong 
Glory in battle, 
Slew with the sword-edge 
There by Brunanburh, 
Brake the sliield-wall, 
Hevv'd the linden-wood,- 
Hack'd the battleshield, 
Sons of Edward with hammer'd brands. 

II. 
Theirs was a greatness 
Got from their Grandsires — 
Theirs that so often in 
Strife with their enemies 
Struck for their hoards and their 
hearklis and their homes. 

III. 

Bow'd the spoiler, 

Bent the Scotsman, 

Fell the sliipcrews 

Doom'd to the death. 
All the field with blood of the fighters 

Flo w'd, from when first the great 

Sun-star of morningtide. 

Lamp of the Lord God 

Lord CA'erlasting, 
Glode over earth till- the glorious 
creature 

Sank to his setting. 

IV. 

There lay many a man 
Marr'd by the javelin. 
Men of the Northland 
Shot over shield. 
There was the Scotsman 
Weary of war. 



"We the West-Saxons, 
Long as the daylight 
Lasted, in companies 

1 I have more or less availed myself of my 
son's prose translation of this poem in the 
Contemporary lierieic (November 1876). 

'^ Shields of liudeuwood. 



Troubled the track of the host that 

we hated, 
Grimly with swords that were sharp 

from the grindstone, 
Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before 

us. 

A'l. 

flighty the Mercian, 
Hard was his hand-play, 
Siiaring not any of 
Those that with Anlaf, 
Warriors over the 
AYeltering waters 
Borne in the bark's-bosom. 
Drew to this island : 
Doom'd to the death. 

VII. 

Five 3"oung kings put asleep by the 

sword-stroke, 
Seven strong Earls of the army of 

Anlaf 
Fell on the war-field, numberless 

numbers, 
Shipmen and Scotsmen. 

VIII. 

Then the Norse leader, 
Dire was his need of it, 
Few were his following, 
Fled to his Avarship : 

Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king 
in it, 

Saving his life on the fallow flood. 



Also the crafty one, 

Constantinus, 

Crept to his North again. 

Hoar-headed hero ! 



Slender warrant had 

He to be proud of 

The welcome of war-knives — 

He that was reft of his 

Folk and liis friends that had 

Fallen in conflict. 

Leaving his son too 

Lost in the carnage. 

Mangled to morsels, 

A youngster in war ! 



Slender reason had 

He to be glad of 

The clash of the war-glaive — 

Traitor and trickster 

And spurner of treaties — 

He nor had Anlaf 

With armies so broken 

A reason for bragging 

That they had the better 



ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH 



597 



In perils of battle 
Un places of slaughter — 
The struggle of standards, 
The rush of the javelins, 
The crash of the charges/ 
The wielding of weapons — 
The play that they play'd with 
The children of Edward. 



Then Avith their nail'd prows 

Parted the Norsemen, a 

Blood-redden'd relic of 

Javelins over 

The jarring breaker, the deep- 
sea billow, 

Shaping their way toward Dy- 
flen 2 again. 

Shamed in their souls. 

I 

XIII. 

Also the brethren. 
King and Atheling, 
Each in his glory, 
Went to his own in his own West- 
Saxonland, 

Glad of the war. 



Many a carcase they left to be carrion. 

Many a livid one, many a sallow- 
skin — 

Left for the white-tail'd eagle to tear 
it, and 

Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to 
rend it, and 

Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to 
gorge it, and 

That gray beast, the wolf of the weald. 



Never had huger 
Slaughter of heroes 
Slain by the sword-edge — 
Such as old writers 
Have writ of in histories — 
Hapt in this isle, since 
Up from the East hither 
Saxon and Angle from 
Over the broad billow 
Broke into Britain with 
Haughty war-workers who 
Harried the Welshman, when 
Earls that were lured by th« 
Hunger of glory gat 
Hold of the land. 



ACHILLES OVER THE 
TRENCH. 

ILIAD, xviii. 202. 

So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away. 
Then rose Achilles dear to Zeus ; and 
round 
1 Lit. " the gathering of men." 2 Dublin. 



Thewarrior's puissant shoulders Pallas 

Hung 
Her fringed a;gis, and around his 

head 
The glorious goddess wreath'd a 

golden cloud, 
And from it lighted an all-shining 

flame. 
As when a smoke from a city goes to 

heaven 
Far off from out an island girt by 

foes, 
All day the men contend in grievous 

war 
Erom their own city, but with set of 

sun 
Their fires flame thickly, and aloft the 

glare 
Flies streaming, if perchance the 

neighbors round 
May see, and sail to help them in the 

war ; 
So from his head the splendor went 

to heaven. 
From wall to dyke he stept, he stood, 

nor join'd 
The Acheeans — honormg his wise 

mother's word — 
There standing, shouted, and Pallas 

far away 
Call'd ; and a boundless panic shook 

the foe. 
For like the clear voice when a trum- 
pet shrills. 
Blown by the fierce beleaguerers of a 

town. 
So rang the clear voice of ^Eakides ; 
And when the brazen cry of ^Eakides 
Was heard among the Trojans, all 

their hearts 
Were troubled, and tiie fuU-maned 

horses whirl'd 
The chariots backward, knowing griefs 

at hand ; 
And sheer-astounded were the chari- 
oteers 
To see the dread, unweariable fire 
That always o'er the great Peleion's 

head 
Burn'd, for the bright-eyed goddess 

made it burn. 
Thrice from the dyke he sent his 

mighty shout, 
Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans 

and allies ; 
And there and then twelve of their 

noblest died 
Among their spears and chariots. 



TO PRINCESS FREDERIC A 
ON HER MARRIAGE. 

O YOU that were eyes and light to the 
King till he past away 



598 



S//? JOHN FRANKLIN— TO DANTE. 



From the darkness of life — 
He saw not his daughter — he blest 

her: the blind King sees you 

to-day, 
He blesses the wife. 



SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 

ON THE CENOTAPH IN WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY. 

Not here ! the white North has thy 
bones ; and thou, 
Heroic sailor-soul, 
Art passing on thine happier voyage 
now 
Toward no earthly pole. 



TO DANTE. 

(written at REQUEST OF THE 
FLORENTINES.) 

King, that hast reign'd six hundred 

years, and grown 
In power, and ever growest, since 

thine own 
Fair Florence honoring thy nativity. 
Thy Florence now the crown of Italy, 
Hath sought" the tribute of a verse 

from me, 
I, wearing but the garland of a 

day. 
Cast at thy feet one flower that fades 

away. 



THE CUP; 

A TEAGEDY. 
DRAMATIS PERSOX^. 



GALATIANS. 



Stnorix, an ex-Tetrarch. 
SiNNATUs, a Tetrarch. 
Attendant. 
Boy. 



Maid. 
Phcebe. 

Cajima, ivife of Sinnatus, afterwards 
Priestess in the Temple of Artemis. 



AxTONiDS, a Roman General. 

PCBLIUS. 

ACT I. 

SCENE I. — Distant View of a 
City of Galatia. Aftekxoon. 

As thecurtain rises. Priestesses are heard 
singing in the Temple. Boy discov- 
ered on a pathway among Rocks pick- 
ing grapes. A parti/ of Roman 
Soldiers, guarding a prisoner in chains, 
come down the pathway and exeunt. 

Enter SvxoKix (looking round). Sing- 
ing ceases. 
Synorix. Pine, beech and plane, 

oak, walnut, apricot. 
Vine, cypress, poplar, myrtle, bower- 

ing in 
The city where she dwells. She past 

me here 
Three years ago when I was flying 

from 
My Tetrarchy to Rome. I almost 

touch'd her — 
A maiden slowly moving on to music 
Among her maidens to this Temple — 

Gods ! 

She is my fate — else wherefore has 
my fate 

Brought me again to her own city ? — 
married 

Since — married Sinnatus, the Tetrarch 
here — 

But if he be conspirator, Rome will 
chain, 

Or slay him. I may trust to gain her 
then 

When I shall have my tetrarchy re- 
stored 

By Rome, our mistress, grateful that 

1 show'd her 



ROMANS. 

j Nobleman. 
1 Messenger. 



The weakness and the dissonance of 

our clans. 
And how to crush them easily. 

Wretched race ! 
And once I wish'd to scourge them to 

the bones. 
But in this narrow breathing-time of 

life 
Is vengeance for its own sake worth 

the while, 
If once our ends are gain'd ? and now 

this cup — 
I never felt such passion for a woman. 
[^Brings out a cup and scroll from 
U7ider his cloak. 
What have I written to her? 

[^Reading the scroll. 
" To the admired Camma, wife of 
Sinnatus, the Tetrarch, one who years 
ago, himself an adorer of our great 
goddess, Artemis, beheld you afar off 
worshipping in her Temple, and loved 
you for it, sends you this cup rescued 
from the burning of one of her shrines 
in a city thro' which he past with the 
Roman army : it is the cup we use in 
our marriages. Receive it from one 
who cannot at present write himself 
other than 

"A Galatian serving by force 
IN the Roman Legion." 
[Turns and looks up to boy. 
Boy, dost thou know the house of Sin- 
natus ? 
Boy. These grapes are for the house 
of Sinnatus — 
Close to the Temple. 
Synorix. Yonder ? 
Boy. Yes. 
Synorix (Aside). That I 



600 



THE CUP. 



With all my range of women should 

yet shun 
To meet her face to face at once! 
My boy, 

\JBoj comes down rocks to him. 
Take thou this letter and this cup to 

Cam ma, 
The wife of Sinnatus. 

Boy. Going or gone to-day 

To hunt with Sinnatus. 

Synorix. That matters not. 

Take thou this cup and leave it at her 

doors. 

\_Gives the cup and scroll to the boy. 

Boy. I will, my lord. 

[^I'akes his basket oj' grapes and exit. 

Enter Antonius. 
Antonius {meeting the Boy as he goes 
out'). Why, whither runs 

the boy ? 
Isthatthecupyourescuedfromthefire? 
Synorix. I send it to the wife of 
Sinnatus, 
One half besotted in religious rites. 
You come here with your soldiers to 

enforce 
The long-withholden tribute : you 

suspect 
This Sinnatus of playing patriotism. 
Which in your sense is treason. You 

have yet 
No proof against him : now this pious 

cup 
Is passport to their house, and open 

arms 
To him who gave it ; and once there 

I warrant 
I worm thro' all their windings. 

Antonius. If you prosper. 

Our Senate, wearied of their tetrarchies, 
Their quarrels with themselves, their 

spites at liome. 
Is like enough to cancel them, and 

throne 
One king above them all, who shall 

be true 
To the Roman : and from what I heard 

in Rome, 
This tributary crown may fall to you. 
Synorix. The king, the crown ! their 
talk in Rome ? is it so ? 

[Antonius nods. 
Well — I shall serve Galatia taking it. 
And save her from fierself, and be to 

Rome 
More faithful than a Roman. 

{_Turns and sees Gamma coming. 
Stand aside. 
Stand aside ; here she comes ! 

[ Watching Gamma as slie enters 
with her Maid. 
Camma (to Maid.) Where is he,girl? 
Maid. You know the waterfall 

That in the summer keeps the moun- 
tain side. 



But after rain o'erleaps a jutting 

rock 
And shoots three hundred feet. 

Camma. The stag is there ? 

Maid. Seen in the thicket at the 
bottom there 
But yester-even. 

Camma. Good then, we will climb 

The mountain opposite and watch the 

chase. 

[They descend the rocks and exeunt. 

Synorix (watching her. Aside.). The 

bust of Juno and the brows and 

e.yes 

Of Venus; faceandformuHmatchable ! 

Antonius. Why do you look at her 

so lingeringly ? 
Synorix. To see if years have 

changed her. 
Antonius (sarcastically). Love her, 

do 3'ou ? 
Synorix. I envied Sinnatus wlien 

he married her. 
Ayitonius. She knows it ? Ha! 
Synorix. She — no, nor ev'n my 

face. 
Antonius. Nor Sinnatus either ? 
Synorix. No, nor Sinnatus. 

Antonius. Hot-blooded ! I liave 
heard them say in Rome, 
That your own people cast you from 

their bounds. 
From some unprincely violence to a 

Moman, 
.As Rome did Tarquin. 

Synorix. Well, if this were so, 

I here return like Tarquin — for a 
crown. 
Antonius. And maj^ be foil'd like 
Tarquin, if you follow 
Not the dry light of Rome's straight- 
going policy. 
But the fool-fire of love or lust, which 

well 
May make you lose yourself, may 

even drown you 
In the good regard of Rome. 

Synorix. Tut — fear me not ; 

I ever had my victories among women. 
I am most true to Rome. 

Antonius (aside). I hate the man ! 
What filthy tools our Senate works 

with ! Still 

I must obey them. (Aloud.) Fare j^ou 

well. [Going. 

Synorix. Farewell ! 

Antonius (stopping). A moment! If 

you track this Sinnatus 

In any treason, I give you here an 

order [Produces a paper. 

To seize upon him. Let me sign it. 

(Signs it.) There 
"Antonius leader of the Roman 
Legion." 
[Hands the paper to Synorix. Goes 
up pathicay and exit. 



THE CUP. 



601 



Synorix. Woman again ! — but I am 

wiser now. 
No rushing on the game — the net, — 

tlie net. 
\_Shouts of" Sinnatus! Sinnatus ! " 

Then horn. 
{Looking njf'star/e.) He comes, a rough, 

bluff, simple-looking fellow. 
If we may judge the kernel by thehusk, 
Not one to keep a woman's fealty when 
Assailed by Craft and Love. I'll join 

with him : 
I may reap something from him — 

come upon her 
Again, perhaps, to-day — her. Who 

are with him ? 
I see no face that knows me. Shall 

I risk it ? 
I am a Roman now, they dare not 

touch me. 
I will. 

Enter Sinnatus, Huntsmen and 
hounds. 

Fair Sir, a happ}'' day to you ! 

You reck but little of the Eoman here. 

While you can take your pastime in 

the woods. 

Sinnatus. Ay, ry, why not ? What 

would you with me, man 1 
Synorix. I am a life-long lover of 
the chase. 
And tho' a stranger fain would be 

allow'd 
To join the hunt. 

Sinnatus. Your name ? 
Synorix. Strato, my name. 
Sinnatus. No Roman name ? 
Synorix. A Greek, my lord; you 
know 
That we Galatians are both Greek 
and Gaul. 

l^Shouts and horns in the distance. 
Sinnatus. Hillo, the stag ! ( To 
Synorix.) What, you are all 
unfurnish'd 1 
Give him a bojv and arrows — follow 
— follow. 

[Exit, followed by Huntsmen. 
Synorix. Slowly but surely — till 
I see my way. 
It is the one step in the dark beyond 
Our expectation, that amazes us. 

[Distant shouts and horns. 
Hillo ! Hillo ! 

[Exit Synorix. Shouts and horns. 

SCENE II. — A Room in the Te- 
trakch's House. 

Frescoed figures on the u-all. Evening. 
Moonlight outside. A couch icith 
cushions on it. A small table with 
fiagon of wine, cups, plate of grapes, 
etc., also the cup of Scene I. A chair 
with drapery on it. 



Camma enters and opens curtains of 
window. 

Camma. No Sinnatus yet — and 

there the rising moon. 
[Takes up a cithern and sits on 

couch. Plays and sings. 
" Moon on the field and the foam, 

Moon on the waste and the wold. 
Moon bring him home, bring him 

home 
Safe from the dark and the cold. 
Home, sweet home, bring him home. 
Home with tlie flock to the fold — 

Safe from the wolf" 

(Listening.) Is he coming ? I thought 

I heard 
A footstep. No not yet. They say 

that Rome 
Sprang from a wolf. I fear my dear 

lord mixt 
With some conspiracy against the 

wolf. 
This mountain shepherd never dream'd 

of Rome. 
(Sings.) "Safe from the wolf to tlie. 

fold" 

And that great break of precipice 

that runs 
Thro' all the wood, where twenty 

years ago 
Huntsman, and liound, a-nd deer were 

all neck-broken ! 
Na}', here he comes. 



Enter Sinnatus followed by Synorix. 

Sinnatvs (angrily). I tell thee, my 
good fellow. 
My arrow struck the stag. 

Synorix. But was it so ? 

Nay, you were further off : besides 

the wind 
Went with my arrow. 

Sinnatus. I am sure I struck him. 
Synorix. And I am just as sure, 
my lord, / struck him. 
(Aside.) And I may strike your 
game when you are gone. 
Camma. Come, come, we will not 
quarrel about the stag. 
I have had a weary day in watching 

you. 
Yours must have been a wearier. Sit 

and eat. 
And take a hunter's vengeance on the 
meats. 
Sinnatus. No, no — we have eaten 

— we are heated. Wine ! 
Camma. Who is our guest 1 
Sinnatus. Strato he calls himself. 
[Camma offers ivine to Synorix, 
ichile Sinnatus hel])s himself] 
Sinnatus. I pledge you, Strato. 

[Drinks. 



602 



THE CUP. 



Synorix. And I you, my lord. 

[^Drinks. 
Slnnatus [seeing the cup sent to Cam- 
ma). What's here ? 
C'ainma. A strange gift sent to me 
to-day. 
A sacred cuiJ saved from a blazing 

shrine 
Of our great Goddess, in some city 

where 
Antonius past. I had believed that 

Rome 
Made war upon the peoples not' the 
Gods. 
Synorix. Most like the city rose 
against Antonius, 
Whereon he fired it, and the sacred 

shrine 
By chance was burnt along with it. 

SiniKdus. Had you then 

Ko message with the cup ? 
Camma. Why, yes, see here. 

[Gives him the scroll. 
Sinnatiis {reads). " To the admired 
Camma, — beheld you afar off — 
loved you — sends you this cup — 
the cup we use in our marriages 
— cannot at present write himself 
other than 

" A Galatian serving by force 
IN THE Roman Legion." 

Serving by force ! Were there no 
boughs to hang on. 

Rivers to drown in ? Serve by force ? 
No force 

Could make me serve by force. 

Synorix. How then, my lord ■? 

The Roman is encampt without your 
city — 

The force of Rome a thousand-fold 
our own. 

Must all Galatia hang or drown her- 
self ? 

And you a Prince and Tetrarch in this 

province 

Sinnatus. Province ! 

Synorix. Well, well, they call it so 

in Rome. 
Simiatus {angrily). Province! 
Synorix. A noble anger ! but An- 
tonius 

To-morrow will demand your tribute 
— you, 

Can you make war ? Have you al- 
liances ? 

Bithynia, Pontus, Paphlagonia 1 

We have had our leagues of old with 
Eastern kings. 

There is my hand — if such a league 
there be. 

What will you do ? 

Sinnatus. Not set myself abroach 

And run my mind out to a random 
guest 



Who join'd me in the hunt. You saw 

my hounds 
True to the scent ; and we have two- 

legg'd dogs 
Among us who can smell a true oc- 
casion, 
And when to bark arid how. 

Synorix. My good Lord Sinnatus, 
I once was at the hunting of a lion. 
Roused by the clamor of the chase he 

woke, - 
Came to the front of the wood — his 

monarch mane 
Bristled about his quick ears — he 

stood there 
Staring upon the hunter. A score of 

dogs 
Gnaw'd at his ankles : at the last he 

felt 
The trouble of his feet, i)ut forth one 

paw. 
Slew four, and knew it not, and so re- 

main'd 
Staring upon the hunter : and this 

Rome 
Will crush you if you wrestle with 

her ; then 
Save for some slight report in her 

own Senate 
Scarce know what she has done. 

{Aside.) Would I could move him. 
Provoke him any way ! (Aloud.) The 

Lady Camma, 
Wise I am sure as she is beautiful. 
Will close with me that to submit at 

once 
Is better than a wholly-hopeless war, 
Our gallant citizens murder'd all in 

vain. 
Son, husband, brother gash'd to death 

in vain, 
And the small state more cruelly 

trampled on 
Than had she never moved. 

Camma. Sir, I had once 

A boy who died a babe ; but were he 

living 
And grown to man and Sinnatus will'd 

it, I 
Would set him in the front rank of 

the fight 
With scarce a pang. {Rises.) Sir, if 

a state submit 
At once, she may be blotted out at once 
And swallow'd in the conqueror's 

chronicle. 
Whereas in wars of freedom and de- 
fence 
The glory and grief of battle won or 

lost 
Solders a race together — yea — tho' 

they fail, 
The names of those who fought and 

fell are like 
A bank'd-up fire that flashes out 

asjain 



THE CUP. 



603 



From century to century, and at last 
May lead them on to victory — I hope 

so — 
Like phantoms of the Gods. 

Sinnatus. Well spoken, wife. 

Synorix {bowing). Madam, so well I 

yield. 
Sinnutaa. I should not wonder 

If Synorix, who has dwelt three years 

in Rome 
And wrought his worst against his 

native land, 
Returns with this Antonius. 

Si/iiori.r. What is Synorix ? 

Sinnatus. Galatian, and not know '? 
This Synorix. 
Was Tetrarch here, and tyrant also — 

did 
Dishonor to our wives. 

Si/norix. Perhaps you judge him 
With feeble charity : being as you tell 

me 
Tetrarch, there might be willing wives 

enough 
To feel dishonor, honor. 

Camma. Do not say so. 

I know of no such wives in all Ga- 

latia. 
There may be courtesans for aught I 

know 
Whose life is one dishonor. 

Enter Attendant. 

Attendant (aside). My lord, the men ! 
Sinnatus (aside). C)ur anti-Roman 

faction •? 
Attendant (aside). Ay, my lord. 
Synorix (overhear in(/). (Aside.) I 
have enough — their anti-Ro- 
man faction. 
Sinnatus (aloud). Some friends of 
mine would speak with me 
without. 
You, Strato, make good cheer till I 
return. [Exit. 

Synorix. I have much to say, no 
time to. say it in. 
First, lady, know myself am that 

Galatian 
Who sent the cup. 

Camma. I thank you from my heart. 

Synorix. Then that I serve with 

Rome to serve Galatia. 

Thatismysecret: keepit, oryousellme 

To torment and to death. [Coming closer. 

For your ear only > — 

I love you — for your love to the 

great Goddess. 
The Romans sent me here a spy upon 

you. 
To draw you and your husband to your 

doom. 
I'd sooner die than do it. 

[ Takes out paper given him by An- 
tonius. 



This paper sign'd 
Antonius — will you take it, read it ? 
there ! 
Camma (reads). "You are to seize 

on Sinnatus, — if — " 
Synorix {snatches paper). No more. 
What follows is for no wife's eyes. O 

Camma, 
Rome has a glimpse of this con- 
spiracy ; 
Rome never yet hath spar'd con- 
spirator. 
Horrible ! flaying, scourging, crucify- 
ing— 
Camma. I am tender enough. Why 

do you practise on me ? 
Synorix. Why should I practise on 
you ? How you wrong me ! 
I am sure of being every way malign 'd. 
And if you should betray me to your 
husband — 
Camma. Will you betray him by 

this order "? 
Synorix. See, 

I tear it all to pieces, never dream'd 
Of acting on it. [Tears the paper. 

Camma. I owe you thanks for 

ever. 
Synorix. Hath Sinnatus never told 

you of this plot ? 
Camma. What plot ? 
Synorix. A child's sand-castle on 
the beach 
For the next wave — all seen, — all 

calculated. 
All known by Rome. No chance for 
Sinnatus. 
Camma. Why, said you not as much 

to my brave Sinnatus ? 
Synorix. Brave — ay — too brave, 
too over-confident, 
Too like to ruin himself, and you, and 
me ! 

] Who else, with this black thunderbolt 
of Rome 
Above him, would have chased the 

stag to-day 
In the full face of all the Roman 

camp? 
A miracle that they let him home 

again. 
Not caught, maim'd, blinded him. 

[Camma shudders. 

(Aside.) I have made her tremble. 

(Aloud.) I know they mean to torture 

him to death. 
I dare not tell him how I came to 

know it ; 
I durst not trust him with — my serv- 
ing Rome 
To serve Galatia : you heard him on 

the letter. 
Not say as much ? I all but said as 

much. 
I am sure I told him that his plot was 
folly. 



604 



THE CUP. 



I say it to you — you are wiser — Rome 

knows all, 
But you know not the savagery of 
Rome. 
Camvia. — have you power with 

Rome ? use it for him ! 
Synorix. Alas ! I have no such power 
with Rome. All that 
Lies with Antonius. 

{As if struck by a sudden thought. 
Comes over to her. 

He will pass to-morrow 
In the gray dawn before the Temple 

doors. 
You have beauty, — O great beauty, 

— and Antonius, 
So gracious toward women, never yet 
Flung back a woman's prayer. Plead 

to him, 
I am sure you will prevail. 

Camma. Still — I should tell 

My husband. 

Synorix. Will he let you plead for 
him 
To a Roman 1 

Camma. I fear not. 
Synorix. Then do not tell him. 

Or tell him, if you will, when j-ou re- 
turn, / 
When you have charm'd our general 

into mercj'. 
And all is safe again. O dearest lady, 
[Murmurs of "Synorix ! Synorix !" 
heard outside. 
Think, — torture, — death, — and come. 
Camma. I will, I will. 

And I will not betray you. 

Synorix {aside. As Sinnatus enters.). 
Stand apart. 

Enter Sinnatus and Attendant. 
Sinnatus. Thou art that Synorix ! 
One whom thou hast wrong'd 
Without there, knew thee with An 

tonius. 
They howl for thee, to rend thee head 
from limb. 
Synorix. I am much malign'd. I 

thought to serve Galatia. 
Sinnatus. Serve thyself first, villain ! 
They shall not harm 
My guest within my house. There ! 
{points to door) there ! this door 
Opens upon the forest! Out, begone! 
Henceforth I am thy mortal enemy. 
Synorix. However I thank thee 
(draws his sword) ; thou hast 
saved my life. [Exit. 

Sinnatus (^o Attendant). Return and 
tell them Synorix is not here. 
[Exit Attendant. 
What did that villain Synorix say to 
you? 
Camma. Is he — that — Synorix ? 
Sinnatus. Wherefore should you 
doubt it ? 



One of the men there knew him. 

Camma. Only one, 

And he perhaps mistaken in the face. 

Sinnatus. Come, come, could he 

deny it ? What did he say ? 
Camma. What should he say 1 
Sinnatus. What should he say, my 
wife ! 
He should say this, that being Tetrarch 

once 
His own true people cast him from 

their doors 
Like a base coin. 

Camma. Not kindly to them ? 
Sinnatus. Kindly ? 

O the most kindly Prince in all the 

world ! 
Would clap his honest citizens on the 

back. 
Bandy their own rude jests with them, 

be curious 
About the welfare of their babes, their 

wives, 
O ay — their wives — their wives. 

What should he say ? 
He should say nothing to my wife if I 
Were by to throttle him ! He steep'd 

himself 
In all the lust of Rome. How should 

you guess 
What manner of beast it is ? 

Camma. Yet he seem'd kindly, 

And said he loathed the cruelties that 

Rome 
Wrought on her vassals. 

Sinnatus. Did he, honest man ? 

Camma. And you, that seldom brook 

the stranger here, 

Have let him hunt the stag with you 

to-day. 

Si7inatus. I warrant you now, he 

said he struck the stag. 
Camma. Why no, he never touch'd 

upon the stag. 
Sinnatus. Why so I said, my arrow. 
Well, to sleep. 

[ Goes to close door. 
Camma. Nay, close not yet the door 
upon a night 
That looks half day. 

Sinnatus. True ; and my friends 
may spy him 
And slay him as he runs. 

Camma. He is gone already. 

Oh look, — yon grove upon the moun- 
tain, — white 
In the sweet moon as with a lovelier 

snow ! 
But what a blotch of blackness under- 
neath ! 
Sinnatus, you remember — yea, you 

must. 
That there three years ago — the vast 

A'ine-bowers 
Ran to the summit of the trees, and 
dropt 



THE CUP. 



605 



Their streamers earthward, whicli a 

breeze of May 
Took ever and anon, and open'd out 
The purple zone of hill and heaven ; 

there 
You told your love ; and like the sway- 
ing vines — 
Yea, — with our eyes, — our hearts, 

our prophet hopes 
Let in the happy distance, and that all 
But cloudless heaven which we have 

found together 
In our three married years! You 

kiss'd me there 
For the first time. Sinnatus, kiss me 

now. 
Sinnatus. First kiss. (Kisses Jier.) 

There then. You talk almost 

as if it 
Might be the last. 

Camma. Will you not eat a little ? 
Sinnatus. No, no, we found a goat- 
herd's hut and shared 
His fruits and milk. Liar ! You will 

believe 
Now that he never struck the stag — 

a brave one 
Which you shall see to-morrow. 

Camma. I rise to-morrow 

In the gray dawn, and take this holy 

cup 
To lodge it in the shrine of Artemis. 
Sinnatus. Good ! 
Camma. If I be not back in half 

an hour. 
Come after me. 

Sinnatus. What ! is there 

danger ? 
Camma. Nay, 

None that I know : 'tis but a step 

from here 
To the Temple. 

Sinnatus. All my brain is full of 

sleep. 
Wake me before you go, I'll after 

you — 
After me now ! [ Closes door and exit. 
Camma (drawing curtains). Your 

shadow. Synorix — 
His face was not malignant, and he'Said 
That men malign'd him. Shall I go ? 

Shall I go ? 
Death, torture — 
" He never yet flung back a woman's 

prayer " — 
I go, but I will have my dagger with 

me. \_Exit. 

SCENE III. — Same as Scene I. 
Dawn. 

Music .and Sincjing in the Temple. 
Enter Synorix icatchfuUt/, after him 
PuBLiL's and Soldiers. 
Si/norix. Publius ! 
Publius. Here ! 



Synorix. Do you remember what 
I told you ? 

Publius. When you cry " Rome, 

Rome," to seize 
On whomsoever may be talking with 

you, 
Or man, or woman, as traitors unto 

Rome. 
Synorix. Right. Back again. How 

many of you are there ? 
Publius. Some half a score. 

[Exeunt Soldiers and Publius. 
Synorix. I have my guard 

about me. 
I need not fear the crowd that hunted 

me 
Across the woods, last night. I hardly 

gain'd 
The camp at midnight. Will she 

come to me 
Now that she knows me Synorix "? 

Not if Sinnatus 
Has told her all the truth about me. 

Well, 
I cannot help the mould that I was 

caet in. 
I fling all that upon my fate, my 

star. 
I know that I am genial, I would be 
Happy, and make all others happy so 
They did not thwart me. Nay, she 

will not come. 
Yet if she be a true and loving wife 
She may, 2>erchance, to save this 

husband. Ay ! 
See, see, my wliite bird stepping 

toward the snare. 
Why now I count it all but miracle, 
That this brave heart of mine should 

shake me so. 
As helplessly as some unbearded boy's 
When first he meets his maiden in a 

bower. 

Enter Camma (ivith cup). 

Synorix. The lark first takes the 
sunlight on his wing. 
But you, twin sister of the morning 

star, 
Forelead the sun. 

Camma. Where is Antonius ? 

Synorix. Not here as yet. You are 
too early for him. 

\_She crosses tou-ards Temple. 
Synorix. Nay, whither go you now ? 
Camma. To lodge this cup 

Within the holy shrine of Artemis, 
And so return. 

Synorix. To find Antonius here. 
[She goes into the Temple, he looks 
after her. 
The loveliest life that ever drew the 

light 
From heaven to brood upon her, and 
enrich 



606 



THE CUP. 



Earth with her shadow ! I trust she 

will return. 
These Romans dare not violate the 

Temple. 
No, I must lure my game into the 

camp. 
A woman I could live and die for. 

What ! 
Die for a woman, what new faith is 

this? 
I am not mad, not sick, not old enough 
To doat on one alone. Yes, mad for 

her, 
Camma the stately, Camma the great- 
hearted, 
So mad, I fear some strange and evU 

chance 
Coming upon me, for by the Gods I 

seem 
Strange to myself. 

Re-enter Camma. 

Camma. Where is Antonius ? 

Synorix. Where ? As I said before, 

you are still too early. 
Camma. Too early ^o be here alone 
with thee ; 
For whether men malign thy name, or 

no, 
It bears an evil savor among Avomen. 
Where is Antonius 1 {Loud.) 

Synorix. Madam, as you know, 

The camp is half a league without the 

city; 
If you will walk with me we needs 

must meet 
Antonius coming, or at least shall 

find him 
There in the camp. 

Camma. No, not one step with 
thee. 
Where is Antonius ? (Louder.) 

Synorix [advancing towards her). 
Then for your own sake. 
Lady, I say it with all gentleness. 
And for the sake of Sinnatus your 

husband, 
I must compel you. 

Camma (drawing her dagger). Stay ! 

— too near is death. 
Synorix (disarming her). Is it not 
easy to disarm a woman ? 



Enter Sinnatus (seizes him from behind 
by the throat). 

Synorix (throttled and scarce audible). 
Rome ! Rome ! 

Sinnatus. Adulterous dog ! 
Synorix (stabbing him icith Gamma's 
dagger). What! will you have 
it? 
[Camma niters a cry and runs to 
Sinnatus. 



Sinnatus {falls backward). I have it 
in my heart — to the Temple — 

fly- 

For my sake — or they seize on thee. 

Remember ! 
Away — farewell ! \_Dies. 

Camma (runs up the steps into the 

Temple, looking bach). Fare- 
well! 
Synorix (seeing her escape). The 

women of the Temple drag her 

in. 
Publius ! Publius ! No, 
Antonius would not suffer me to 

break 
Into the sanctuary. She hath escaped. 
[Loo/cing down at Sinnatus. 
"Adulterous dog!" that red-faced 

rage at me ! 
Then with one quick short stab — 

eternal peace. 
So end all passions. Then what use 

in passions ? 
To warm the cold bounds of our dving 

life 
And, lest we freeze in mortal 

apathy. 
Employ us, heat us, quicken us, help 

us, keep us 
From seeing all too near that urn, 

those ashes 
Which all must be. Well used, they 

serve us well. 
I heard a saying in Egypt, that am- 
bition 
Is like the sea wave, which the more 

you drink, 
Tlie more you thirst — yea — drink 

too much, as men 
Have done on rafts of wreck — it 

drives you mad. 
I will be no such wreck, am no sucli 

gamester 
As, having won the stake, would dare 

the chance 
Of double, or losing all. The Roman 

Senate, 
For I have alwaj's play'd into their 

hands, 
Me^Hs me the crown. And Camma 

for my bride — 
The people love her — if I win her 

love. 
They too will cleave to me, as one 

with her. 
There then I rest, Rome's tributary 

king. 

[LooJcing down on Sinnatus. 
Why did I strike liim ? — having 

proof enough 
Against the man, I surely should have 

left 
That stroke to Rome. He saved my 

life too. Did he ? 
It seem'd so. I have play'd the sud- 
den fool. 



THE CUP. 



607 



And that sets her against nie — for the 

moment. 
Camma — well, well, I never found 

the woman 
I could not force or wheedle to my 

will. 
She will be glad at last to wear my 

crown. 
And I will make Galatia prosperous 

too, 
And we will chirp among our vines, 

and smile 
At bygone things till that {pointing to 

Sinnatus) eternal jieace. 
Rome ! Home ! 

Entei- PuBLius and Soldiers. 

Twice I cried Rome. Why came ye 
not before 1 
Pub/iits. Why come we now ? 

Whom shall we seize upon ? 
Sijnorix (pointing to the body of 
Sinnatus). The body of that 
dead traitor Sinnatus. 
Bear him away. 

l_Music and Singing in Temple. 



SCENE. 



ACT 11. 

• Interior of the Temple 
OF Artemis. 



Small gold gates on platform in front of 
the veil before the colossal statue of the 
Goddess, and in the centre of the 
Temple a tripod altar, on ichich is a 
lighted lamp. Lamps (lighted) sus- 
ptnded between each pillar. Tripods, 
vases, garlands of Jfoivers, etc., about 
stage. Altar at back close to God- 
dess, with two cups. Solemn nuisic. 
Priestesses decorating the Temple. 

Enter a Priestess. 

Priestess. Phoebe, that man from 
Synorix, who has been 
So oft to see the Priestess, waits once 

, more 
Before the Temple. 

Phcebe. We will let her know. 

\_Signs to one of the Priestesses, 
who goes out. 
Since Camma fled from Synorix to our 

Temple, 
And for her beauty, stateliness, and 

power. 
Was chosen Priestess here, have j^ou 

not mark'd 
Her eyes were ever on the marble 

floor? 
To-day they are fixt and bright — 
they look straight out. 



Hath she made up her mind to marrv 
him ? 
Priestess. Tomarryhimwho stabb'd 
her Sinnatus. 
You will not easily make me credit 
that. 
Phoebe. Ask her. 

Enter Camma as Priestess (in front of 
the cui'tains). 

Priestess. You will not marry 
Synorix ? 

Camma. My girl, I am the bride of 
Death, and only 
MaiTy the dead. 

Priestess. Not Synorix then ? 

Camma. My girl, 

At times this oracle of great Artemis 
Has no more power than other oracles 
To speak directly. 

Phoebe. Will you speak to him. 

The messenger from Synorix who waits 
Before the Temple i 

Camma. Why not ? Let him enter. 
[Comes forward on to step by tripod. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Messenger (kneels). Greeting and 

health from Synorix ! More 

than once 
You have refused his hand. When 

last I saw you. 
You all but yielded. He entreats 

you now 
For your last answer. When he 

struck at Sinnatus — 
As I have many a time declared to 

you — 
He knew not at the moment who had 

fasten'd 
About his throat — he begs you to 

forget it 
As scarce his act : — a random stroke : 

all else 
Was love for you : he prays you to 

believe him. 
Camma. I pray him to believe — 

that I believe him. 
Messenger. Why that is well. You 

mean to marry him ? 
Camma. I mean to marry him — if 

that be well. 
Messenger. This very day the Ro- 
mans crown him king 
For all his faithful services to Rome. 
He wills you then this day to marry 

him. 
And so be throned together in the 

sight 
Of all the people, that the world may 

know 
You twain are reconciled, and no 

more feuds 
Disturb our peaceful vassalage to 

Rome. 



60S 



THE CUP. 



Camma. To-day I Too sudden. I 
will brood upon it. 
When do they crown him ? 
Messenger. Even now. 
Camma. And where ? 

Messenger. Here by your temple. 
Camma. Come once more to me 
Before the crowning, — I will answer 
you. 

\_Exit Messenger. 
Phcebe. Great Artemis ! O Camma, 
can it be well. 
Or good, or wise, that you should 

clasp a hand 
Red with the sacred blood of Sinnatus 1 
Camma. Good! mine own dagger 
driven by Synorix found 
All good in tlie true heart of Sinnatus, 
And quench'd it there forever. Wise ! 
Life yields to death and wisdom bows 

to Fate, 
Is wisest, doing so. Did not this man 
Speak well ? We cannot fight impe- 
rial Rome, 
But he and I are both Galatian-born, 
And tributary sovereigns, he and I, 
Might teach this Rome — from knowl- 
edge of our people — 
Where to lay on her tribute — heavily 

here 
And lightly there. Might I not live 

for that. 
And drown all poor self-passion in 

the sense 
Of i>ublic good 1 

Phahe. I am sure you will not mar- 
ry him. 
Camma. Are you so sure ? I pray 
you wait ,and see. 
\_Sho^its (from the distance), 
" Synorix ! " " Synorix ! " 
Camma. Synorix, Synorix ! So they 
cried Sinnatus 
Not so long since — they sicken me. 

The One 
Who shifts his policy suffers some- 
thing, must 
Accuse himself, excuse himself; the 

Many 
Will feel no shame to give themselves 
the lie. 
Phcebe. Most like it was the Roman 

soldier shouted. 
Camma. Their shield-borne patriot 
of the morning star 
Hang'd at mid-day, their traitor of 

the dawn 
The clamor'd darling of their after- 
noon ! 
And that same head they would have 

play'd at ball witii, 
And kick'd it featureless — they now 
would crown. 

■ [Flourish of trumpets. 



Enter a Galatian Nobleman with crown 
on a cushion. 

Noble (kneels). Greeting and health 
from Synorix. He sends you 

This diadem of the first Galatian 
Queen, 

That you may feed your fancy on the 
glory of it. 

And join your life this day with his, 
and wear it 

Beside him on his throne. He waits 
your answer. 
Camma. Tell him there is one 
shadow among the shadows. 

One ghost of all the ghosts — as yet 
so new, 

So strange among them — such an 
alien there. 

So much of husband in it still — that if 

The shout of Synorix and Camma sit- 
ting 

Upon one throne, should reach it, it 
would rise. 

He ! . . . He, with that red star be- 
tween the ribs. 

And my knife there — and blast the 
king and me. 

And blanch the crowd with horror. I 
dare not, sir ! 

Throne him — and then the marriage 
— ay and tell him 

That I accept the diadem of Galatia — 
[All are amazed. 

Yea, that ye saw me crown myself 
withal. [Puts on the crown. 

I wait him his crown'd queen. 
Noble. So will I tell him. 

[Exit. 

3Iusic. Two Priestesses go up the steps 
before the shrine, draw the curtains on 
either side (discovering the Goddess), 
then open the gates and remain on 
steps, one on either side, and kneel. 
A Priestess 9oes off and returns icith 
a veil of marriage, then assists Thcebe 
to veil Camma. At the same time 
Priestesses enter and stand on either 
side of the Temple. C.\mma and all 
the Priestesses kneel, raise their 
hands to the Goddess, and , bow 
down, 

[Shouts, " Synorix ! Synorix ! " 
All rise. 
Camma. Fling wide the doors, and 
let the new-made children 
Of our imperial mother see the show. 
[Sunlight pours through the doors. 
I have no heart to do it. ( To Phcebe.) 
Look for me ! 

[ Crouches. Phoebe looks out. 
[Shouts, " Synorix ! Synorix ! " 
Phcebe. He climbs the throne. 
Hot blood, ambition, pride 



THE CUP. 



609 



So bloat and redden his face — O 

would it were 
His third last apoplexy ! bestial ! 
O how unlike our goodly Sinnatus. 
Camma (on the ground). You wrong 
him surely ; far as the face goes 
A goodlier-looking man than Sinnatus. 
Phahe (aside). How dare she say 
it ? I could hate her for it 
But that she is distracted. 

[^ A' flourish oj" trumpets. 
Camma. Is he crown'd ? 

Phabe. Ay, there they crown him. 
[_Croivd icithout shout, " Synorix ! 
Synorix ! " 
Camma (rises). 

[_A Priestess brings a box of spices 
to Camma who throics them on the 
altar Jiame. 
Rouse the dead altar-flame, fling in 

the spices, 
Nard, Cinnamon, amomum, benzoin. 
Let all the air reel into a mist of odor. 
As in the midmost lieart of Paradise. 
Lay down the Lydian carpets for the 

king. 
The king should pace on purple to his 

bride, 
And music there to gi-eet my lord the 
king. \_j\Iusic. 

(To Phoebe.) Dost thou remember 

when I wedded Sinnatus ? 
Ay, thou wast tliere — whether from 

maiden fears 
Or reverential love for him I loved, 
Or some strange second-sight, the 

marriage-cup 
Wherefrom we make libation to the 

Goddess 
So shook within my hand, that the red 

wine 
Ran down the marble and lookt like 
blood, like blood. 
Phoebe. I do remember your first- 
marriage fears. 
Camma. I have no fears at this my 
second marriage. 
See here — I stretch my hand out — 

hold it there. 
How steady it is ! 

Phabe. Steady enough to stab him ! 
Camma. hush ! O peace ! This 
violence ill becomes 
The silenceof ourTcniple. Gentleness, 
Low words best chime with this solem- 
nity. 

Enter a procession of Priestesses and 
Children bearing garlands and golden 
goblets, and strewing flowers. 

Enter Synorix {as King, tvith gold lau- 
rel-wreath croicn and purple robes), 
followed bi/ Antonius, Publius, No- 
blemen, Guards, and the Populaqe. 
Camma. Hail, King ! 



lynorix. 



Hail, Queen ! 



The wheel of Fate has roll'd me to 

the top. 
I would that happiness were golds 

that I 
Might cast my largess of it to the 

crowd ! 
I would that every man made feast 

to-day 
Beneath the shadow of our pines and 

planes ! 
For all mj^ truer life begins to-day. 
The past is like a travell'd land now 

sunk 
Below the horizon — like a barren 

shore 
That grew salt weeds, but now all 

drown'd in love 
And glittering at full tide — the boun- 
teous bays 
And havens filling with a blissful sea. 
Nor speak I now too mightily, being 

King 
And happy ! happiest. Lady, in my 

power 
To make you happy. 

Camma. Yes, sir. 

Sgnorix. Our Antonius, 

Our faithful friend of Rome, tho' 

Rome may set 
A free foot where she will, yet of his 

courtesy 
Entreats he may be present at our 

marriage. 
Camma. Let him come — a legion 

with him, if he will. 
(To Antonius.) Welcome, my lord 

Antonius, to our Temple. 
(To Synorix.) You on this side the 

altar. (To Antonius.) You on 

that. 
Call first upon the Goddess, Synorix. 
l_Allface the Goddess. Priestesses, 

Children, Populace and Guards 

kneel — the others remain standing. 
Sjjnorix. Thou, that dost inspire 

the germ with life. 
The child, a thread within the house 

of birth, 
And give him limbs, then air, and send 

him forth 
The glory of his father — Thou Mhose 

breath 
Is balmy wind to robe our hills with 

grass. 
And kindle all our vales with myrtle- 
blossom, 
Androll the golden oceans of our grain, 
And sway the long grape-bunches of 

our vines. 
And fill all hearts with fatness and 

the lust 
Of plenty — make me happy in my 

marriage ! 
Chorus (chanting). Artemis, Arte- 
mis, hear him, Ionian Artemis ! 



610 



THE CUP. 



Camma. () Thou that slajest the 

babe within the womb 
Orinthebeingborn,orafterslayesthim 
As boy or man, great Goddess, whose 

storm-voice 
Unsockets the strong oak, and rears 

his root 
Beyond liis head, and strows our 

fruits, and lays 
Our gohlon grain, and runs to sea and 

makes it 
Foam over all the fleeted wealth of 

kings 
And peoples, hear. 
Whose arrow is the plague — whose 

quick flash splits 
The mid-sea mast, and rifts the tower 

to the rock. 
And hurls the victor's column down 

with him 
That crowns it, hear. 
Who causest the safe earth to shud- 
der and gape, 
And gulf and flatten in her closing 

chasm 
Domed cities, hear. 
Wliose lava-torrents blast and blacken 

a province 
To a cinder, hear. 
Whose winter-cataracts find a realm 

and leave it 
A waste of rock and ruin, hear. I 

call thee 
To make my marriage prosper to my 

wish ! 
Chorus. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, 

Ephesian Artemis ! 
Camma. Artemis, Artemis, hear me, 

Galatian Artemis ! 
I call on our own Goddess in our own 

Temple. 
Chorus. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, 

Galatian Artemis ! 

\_Thunder. All rise. 
Synorix (aside). Thunder! Ay, ay, 

the storm was drawing hither 
Across the hills when I was being 

crown'd. 
I wonder if I look as pale as she ? 
Camma. Art thou — still bent — 

on marrying ? 
Synorix. Surely — yet 

These are strange words to speak to 

Artemis. 
Camma. Words are not always what 

they seem, my King. 
I will be faithful to thee till thou die. 
Si/norix. I thank thee, Camma, — I 

thank thee. 
Camma (turning to Antonius). An- 

tonius. 
Much graced are we that our Queen 

Rome in you 
Deigns to look in upon our barbarisms. 
[Turns, cjoes up steps to a/tar he/ore 

the Goddess. Takes a cup from 



off the altar. Holds it tau-ards 
Antonius. Antonius //or-s up 
to the foot of the steps, opposite to 
Synorix. 
You see this cup, my lord. 

[Gives it to him. 
Antonius. Most curious ! 

The many-breasted mother Artemis 
Emboss'd upon it. 

Camma. It is old, I know not 
How many hundred years. Give it 

me again. 

It is the cup belonging our own Temple. 

[Puts it back on altar, and takes 

up the cup of Act I. Showing 

it to Antonius. 

Here is another sacred to the Goddess, 

The gift of Synorix ; and the Goddess, 

being 
For this most grateful, wills, thro' 

me her Priestess, 
Inhonorof hisgift and of our marriage. 
That Synorix should drink from his 
own cup. 
Synorix. I thank thee, Camma, — I 

thank thee. 
Camma. For — my lord — 

It is our ancient custom in Galatia 
That ere two souls be knit for life and 

death, 
They two should drink together from 

one cup. 
In symbol of their married unity, 
Making libation to the Goddess. 

Bring me 
The costly wines we use in marriages. 
[They briny in a large jar of wine. 
Camma jiours icine ii\to cup. 
( To Synorix. ) See here, I fill it. ( To 
Antonius.) Will you drink, 
my lord ? 
Antonius. I? Why should I? I 

am not to be married. 
Camma. But that might bring a 

Roman blessing on us. 
Anton ius (refusing cup ) . Thy pardon, 

Priestess ! 
Camma. Thou art in the right. 
This blessing is for Synorix and forme. 
See first I make libation to the God- 
dess, [Makes libation. 
And now I drink. 

[Drinks and fills the cup again. 
TJiy turn, Galatian King. 
Drink and drink deep — our marriage 

will be fruitful. 
Drink and drink deep, and thou wilt 
make me happy. 
[Synorix goes up to her. She 
hands hi7n the cup. He drinks. 
Synorix. There, Camma ! I have 
almost drain'd the cup — 
A few drops left. 

Camma. Libation to the Goddess. 
' [He throws the remaining drojis on 
the altar and gives Camma the cup. 



THE CUP. 



611 



Ciimnui (itlaci)uj the cup on the altar). 
Why then the Goddess hears. 
[Co7Hes down and forward to 
tripod. Antonius follows. 

Antonius, 
Where wastthou on that morning when 

I came 
To plead to thee for Sinnatiis's life, 
Beside tliis temple half a year 
ago ? 
Antonius. I never heard of this re- 
quest of thine. 
Synorix (coniinfj foncard hastily to 
foot of tripod steps). I sought 
him and I could not find him. 
Pray you, 
Go on with the marriage rites. 

Camma. Antonius 

" Camma ! " who spake ? 
Antonius. Not I. 

Phabe. Nor any here. 

Camma. I am all but sure that some 
one spake. Antonius, 
If you had found him plotting against 

Rome, 
Would you have tortured Sinnatus to 
death ? 
Antonius. No thought was mine of 
torture or of death. 
But had I found Inm plotting, I had 

counsell'd him 
To rest from vain resistance. Rome 

is fated 
To rule the world. Then, if he had 

not listen'd, 
I might have sent him prisoner to 
Rome. 
Synorix. Why do you palter with 
the ceremony ? 
Go with the marriage rites. 

Camma. Tiiey are finish'd. 

Synorix. How ! 

Camma. Thou hast drunk deep 

enough to make me happy. 

Dost thou not feel the love I bear to 

thee 
Glow thro' thy veins ? 

Synorix. The love I bear to thee 
Glows thro' my veins since first I 

look'd on thee. 
But wlierefore slur the perfect cere- 
mony ? 
The sovereign of Galatia weds his 

Queen. 
Let all be done to the fullest in the 

sight 
Of all the Gods. (Starts.) This pain 

— what is it ? — again ? 

I had a touch of tliis last year — in — 

Rome. 
Yes, yes. (To Antonius.) Your arm 

— a moment — It will pass. 

I reel beneath the weight of utter 



.joy — 
This all too 



happy 
queen at once. 



day, 



crown — 

[.St(i(/(j€rs. 



all ye Gods — Jupiter ! — Jupiter ! 

[Falls buckward. 
Camma. Dost thou cry out upon 
the Gods of Rome ! 
Thou art Galatian-born ? Our Artemis 
Has vanquisli'd their Diana. 

Synorix [on the ground). I am 
poison'd. 
She — close the Temple doors. Lot 
her not fly. 
Camma {leaning on tripod). Have I 
not drunk of the same cup with 
thee ? 
Synorix. Ay, by the Gods of Rome 
and all the world, 
She too — she too — the bride ! the 

Queen ! and I — 
Monstrous ! I that loved her. 
Camma. I loved him. 

Synorix. murderous mad-woman! 
I pray you lift me 
And make me walk awhile. I have 

heard these poisons 
May be walk'd down. 

[Antonius and Publius raise 
him up. 

My feet are tons of lead. 
They will break in the earth — lam 

sinking — hold me — 
Let me alone. 

[ Tlicy leave him ; he sinks down 
on ground. 
Too late — thought myself wise — 
A woman's dupe. Antonius, tell the 
Senate 

1 have been most true to Rome — 

would have been true 

To/(er — if — if 

{_Falls as if dead. 
Camma (comingand leaning over him). 

So falls the throne of an 

hour. 
Synorix (half rising). Throne? is it 

thou ? the Fates are throned, 

not we — 
Not guilty of ourselves — th}- doom 

and mine — 
Thou — coming my way too — Camma 

— good-night. \_Dies. 

Camma (upheld by iceeping Priest- 
esses). Thy way? poor worm, 

crawl down thine own black 

hole 
To the lowest Hell. Antonius, is he 

there ? 
I meant thee to have f ollow'd — better 

thus. 
Nay, if my people must be thralls of 

Rome, 
He is gentle, tho' a Roman. 

l_Sinks back into the arms of the 

Priestesses. 
Aidonius. Thou art one 

With thine own people, and tho' a 

Roman I 
Forgive thee, Camma. 



612 



THE CUP. 



Cainma {raisinr/ herself). " Camma ! " 
why there again 
I am most sure that some one call'd. 

women, 

Ye will have Roman masters. lamglad 
I shall not see it. Did not some old 

Greek 
Say death was the chief good ? He 

had my fate for it, 
Poison'd. (, Sinks hack again.) Have 

1 the crown on 1 I will go 

To meet him, crown'd ! crown'd victor 

of my will — 
On my last voj^age — but the wind has 

f ail'd — 
Growing dark too — but light enough 



Row to the blessed Isles ! the blessed 
Isles ! — 

Sinnatus ! 

Why comes he not to meet me ? It is 
the crown 

Offends him — and my hands are too 
sleepv 

To lift it off. 

[Phoebe takes the crown off. 

Who touch'd me then ? I thank you. 
\_Itises, with outspread arms. 

There — league on league of ever- 
shining shore 

Beneath anever-risingsun — Iseehim — 

" Camma, Camma ! " Sinnatus, Sin- 
natus ! [Dies. 



THE FALCOI^. 



DRAMATIS PEBSOXyE. 

The Count Federigo degh Alberighi. 
Finppo, Count's foster-brother. 
The Lady Gioaaxxa. 
Elisabetta, the Count's nurse. 



SCENE. — An Italian Cottage. 
Castle and Mountains seen 
through Window. 

Elisabetta discovered seated on stool 
in ivindoiv darninf). The Count with 
Falcon on his hand comes down through 
the door at back. A icithered wreath 
on the icull. 

Elisabetta. So, my lord, the Lady 
Giovanna, who hath been away so 
long, came back last night with her 
son to the castle. 

Count. Hear that, ni}^ bird ! Art 

thon not jealous of her 1 
My princess of the cloud, my plumed 

purveyor, 
My far-eyed queen of the winds — 

thou that canst soar 
Beyond the morning lark, and how- 

soe'er 
Thy quarry wind and wheel, swoop 

down upon him 
Eagle -like, lightning-like — strike, 

make his feathers 
Glance in mid heaven. 

\^Cross€S to chair. 

I would thou hadst a mate ! 

Thy breed will die with thee, and mine 

with me : 
I am as lone and loveless as thyself. 

\_Sits in chair. 
Giovanna here ! Ay, ruffle thyself — 

be jealous! 
Thou should'st be jealous of her. 

Tho' I bred thee 
The fuU-train'd marvel of all falconry, 
And love thee and thou me, yet if 

Giovanna 
Be here again — No, no ! Buss me, 

my bird ! 
The stately widow has no heart for 

me. 
Thou art the last friend left me upon 

earth — 



No, no again to that. 

\_Itises and turns. 

My good old nurse, 

I had forgotten thou wast sitting there. 

Elisabetta. Ay, and forgotten thy 

foster-brother too. 
Count. Bird-babble for my falcon ! 
Let it pass. 
What art thou doing there ? 

Elisabetta. Darning, your lordship. 
We cannot flaunt it in new feathers 

now : 
Nay, if we icill buy diamond necklaces 
To please our lady, we must darn, my 

lord. 
This old thing here (points to necklace 
round her neck), the}' are but 
blue beads — my Piero, 
God rest his honest soul, lie bought 

'era for me. 
Ay, but he knew I meant to marry 

him. 
How couldst thou do it, my son ? 
How couldst thou do it ? 
Count. She saw it at a dance, upon 
a neck 
Less lovelv than her own, and long'd 
fork. 
Elisabetta. She told thee as much ? 
Count. No, no — a friend of hers. 
Elisabetta. Shame on her that she 
took it at thy hands. 
She rich encJugh to have bought it for 
herself ! 
Count. She would have robb'd me 

then of a great pleasure. 
Elisabetta. But hath she yet re- 

turn'd thy love ? 
Count. Not yet ! 

Elisabetta. She should return thy 

necklace then. 
Coupt. Ay, if 

She knew the giver ; but I bound the 

seller 
To silence, and I left it privily 
At Florence, in her palace. 



614 



THE FALCON. 



Elisabetta. And sold thine own 

To buy it for her. She riot know ? 
She knows 

There's none such other 

Count. Madman anywhere. 

Speak freely, the' to call a madman 

mad 
Will hardly help to make him sane 
again. 

Enter Filippo. 

Filippo. Ah, the women, the wo- 
men! Ah, Monna Giovanna, you 
here again ! you that have the face of 
an angel and the heart of a — that's 
too positive ! You that have a score 
of lovers and have not a heart for any 
of them — that's positive-negative : 
you that have iwt the head of a toad, 
and not a heart like the jewel in it — 
that's too negative ; you that liave a 
cheek like a peach and a heart like 
the stone in it — tliat's positive again 
— that's better ! 

Elisabetta. Sh — sh — Filippo ! 

Filippo (turns half round). Here has 
our master been a-glorifying and 
a-velveting and a-silking himself, and 
a-peacocking and a-spreading to catch 
her eye for a dozen year, till he liasn't 
an eye left in liis own tail to flourish 
among the peahens, and all along o' 
you, Monna Giovanna, all along o' 
you! 

Elisabetta. Sh — sh — Filippo ! Can't 
you hear that you are saying behind 
his back what you see you are saying 
afore his face ? 

Count. Let him — he never spares 
me to my face ! 

Filijipo. No, my lord, I never spare 
your lordship to your lordship's face, 
nor beliind your lordship's back, nor 
to right, nor to left, nor to round 
about and back to your lordship's 
face again, for I'm honest, your lord- 
ship. 

Count. Come, -come, Filippo, what 
is there in the larder ? 

[Elisabetta crosses to fireplace and 
puts on ivood. 

Filippo. Shelves and hooks, shelves 
and hooks, and wlien I see the shelves 
I am like to hang myself on the 
hooks. 

Count. No bread ? 

Filippo. Half a breakfast for a rat ! 

Count. Milk ? 

Filippo. Three laps for a cat ! 

Count. Cheese ? 

Filippo. A supper for twelve mites. 

Count. Eggs ■? 

Filippo. Une, but addled. 

Count. No bird ? 

Filippo. Half a tit and a hern's bill. 



Count. Let be thy jokes and thy 
jerks, man ! Anything or nothing ? 

Filippo. Well, my lord, if all-but- 
nothing be anytliing, and one phxte of 
dried prunes be all-but-nothing, then 
there is anything in your lordship's 
larder at your lordshi^j's service, if 
your lordship care to call for it. 
Count. Good mother, happy was 

the prodigal son. 
For he return'd to the rich father ; I 
But add my poverty to thine. And all 
Tliro' following of my fancy. Pray 

thee make 
Thy slender meal out of those scraps 

and slireds 
Filippo spoke of. As for him and me. 
There sprouts a salad in the garden 

still. 
[To the Falcon.) Why didst thou 

miss thy quarry yester-even ? 
To-day, my beauty, thou must dash 

us down 
Our dinner from the skies. Away, 

Filippo ! 

[Exit followed bji Filippo. 
Elisabetta. I knew it would come 
to this. She has beggared him. I 
always knew it would come to this! 
( Goes up to table as if to resume darn- 
iru/, and looks out of window.) Why, 
as I live, there is Monna Giovanna 
coming down the hill from the castle. 
Stops and stares at our cottage. Ay, 
ay ! stare at it : it's all you have left 
us. Shame upon you ! She beauti- 
ful ! sleek as a miller's mouse ! Meal 
enough, meat enough, well fed ; but 
beautiful — bah ! Nay, see, why she 
turns down the path through our little 
vineyard, and I sneezed three times 
this morning. Coming to visit my 
lord, for the first time in her life too 1 
W^hy, bless the saints ! I'll be boimd 
to confess her love to him at last. I 
forgive her, I forgive her ! I knew 
it would come to this — I always 
knew it must come to this ! ( Coin;/ 
up to door during latter part of 
speech and opens it.) Come in. Ma- 
donna, come in. (Retires to front of 
table and curtseys as the Lady Gio- 
vanna enters, then moves chair towards 
the hearth.) Nay, let me place this 
chair for your ladyship. 

[Lady Giovanna moves slou-hj 

down stage, then crosses to chair, 

looking about her, bows as she 

sees the Madonna over fireplace, 

then sits in chair. 
Ladif Giovanna. Can I speak with 

'the Count ? 

Elisabetta. Ay, my lady, but won't 

you speak with the old woman first, 

and tell her all about it and make her 

happy ? for I've been on my knees 



THE FALCON. 



615 



every day for these half-dozen years 
in hope tliat the saints would send us 
this blessed morning; and he always 
took you so kindly, he always took 
the world so kindly. When he was a 
little one, and I put the bitters on my 
breast to wean him, he made a wry 
mouth at it, but he took it so kindly, 
and your ladyship has given him bit- 
ters enough in this world, and he 
never made a wry mouth at you, he 
always took you so kindly — which is 
more than I did, my lady, more than 
I did — and he so handsome — and 
bless your sweet face, you look as 
beautiful this morning as the very 
^ladonna her own self — and better 
late than never — but come when they 
will — then or now — it's all for the 
best, come when they will — they are 
nuide by the blessed saints — these 
marriages. \Raises her hands. 

Ladj Giovanna. Marriages? I shall 

never marry again ! 
Elisahetta (rises and turns). Shame 

on her then ! 
Lad// Giocannu. Where is the 

Count ? 
Elisahetta. Just gone 

To fly his falcon. 

Ladij Giovanna. Call him back and 

say 
I come to breakfast with him. 

Elisahetta. Holy mother! 

To breakfast ! Oh sweet saints ! one 

l^late of prunes ! 
Well, Madam, I will give your mes- 
sage to him. \Exit. 
Lady Giovanna. His falcon, and I 

come to ask for his falcon, 
The pleasure of his eyes — boast of 

his hand — 
Pride of his heart — the solace of his 

hours — 
His one companion here — nay, I have 

heard 
That, thro' his late magnificence of 

living 
And this last costly gift to mine own 

self, \_Shows diamond necklace. 
He hath become so beggar'd, that his 

falcon 
Ev'n wins his dinner for him in the 

field. 
That must be talk, not truth, but 

truth or talk, 
How can I ask for his falcon 1 

[A'/ses and moves as she speaks. 
O my sick boy ! 
My daily fading Florio, it is thou 
Hath set me this hard task, for when 

I say 
What can I do — what can I get for 

thee ? 
He answers, " Get the Count to give 

me his falcon. 



And that will make me well." Yet if 

I ask. 
He loves me, and he knows I know he 

loves me ! 
Will he not pray me to return his 

love — 
To marry him? — (pause) — I can 

never marry him. 
His grandsii'e struck my grandsire in 

a brawl 
At Florence, and my grandsire stabb'd 

him tliere. 
The feud between our houses is the 

bar 
I cannot cross ; I dare not brave my 

brother. 
Break with my kin. My brother 

hates him, scorns 
Tlie nobk'st-natured man alive, and I — 
Who have that reverence for him that 

I scarce 
Dare beg him to receive his diamonds 

back — 
How can I, dare I, ask him for his 

falcon '? 

yPuts diamonds in her casket. 

Re-enter Count and Filippo. Count 
turns to FiLii'PO. 
Count. Do what I said ; I cannot 

do it myself. 
Filippo. Why then, my lord, we are 

pauper'd out and out. 
Count. Do what I said ! 

[Advances and hows low. 
Welcome to this poor cottage, my 
dear lady. 
Lady Giovanna. And welcome turns 

a cottage to a palace. 
Count. 'Tis long since we have met ! 
Lady Giovanna. To make amends 
I come this day to break my fast with 
you. 
Count. I am much honor'd — yes — 
[Turns to Filippo. 
Do what I told thee. Must I do it 
myself ? 
Filippo. I will, I will. (Siyhs.) 
Poor fellow ! [Exit. 

Count. Lady, you bring your light 
into my cottage 
Who never deign'd to shine into my 

palace. 
My palace wanting you was but a 

cottage ; 
My cottage, while you grace it, is a 
palace. 
Lady Giovanna. In cottage or in 
palace, being still 
Beyond your fortunes, you are still 

the king 
Of courtesy and liberality. 

Count. I trust I still maintain my 
courtesy ; 
My liberality perforce is dead. 
Thro' lack of means of giving. 



616 



THE FALCON. 



Lady Giovanna. Yet I come 

To ask a gift. 

\_Moves toward him a little. 
Count. It will be hard, I fear, 

To find one shock upon the field when 

all 
The harvest has been carried. 

Lady Giovanna. But my boy — 
(Aside.) No, no ! not yet — I cannot ! 
Count. Ay, how is he, 

That bright inheritor of your eyes — 
your boy ? 
Lady Giovanna. Alas, my Lord 
Federigo, he hath fallen 
Into a sickness, and it troubles me. 
Count. Sick ! is it so ? why, when 
he came last year 
To see me hawking, he was well 

enough : 
And then I taught him all our hawk- 
ing-phrases. 
Lady Giovanna. Oh yes, and once 

you let him fly your falcon. 

Count. How charm'd he was ! what 

wonder ? — A gallant boy, 

A noble bird, each perfect of the 

breed. 

Lady Giovanna {sinks in chair). 

What do you rate her at ? 
Count. My bird ? a hundred 

Gold pieces once were ofEer'd by the 

Duke. 

I had no heart to part with her for 

money. 

Lady Giovanna. No, not for money. 

[Count turns away and siyhs. 

^ Wherefore do you sigh ? 

Count. I have lost a friend of 

late. 
Lady Giovanna. I could sigh with 
you 
For fear of losing more than friend, 

a son ; 
And if 'he leave me — all the rest of 

life — 
That wither'd wreath were of more 
worth to me. 

[Looking at ivreath on icaU. 
Count. That wither'd wreath is of 
more worth to me 
Than all the blossom, all the leaf of 

this 
New-wakening year. 

[Goes and takes down wreath. 
Lady Giovanna. And yet I never 
saw 
The land so rich in blossom as this 
year. 
Count {holding wreath toward her). 
Was not the year when this 
was gather'd richer ? 
L^ady Giovanna. How long ago was 

that ? 
Count. ■ Alas, ten isummers ! 

A lady that was beautiful as day 
Sat by me at a rustic festival 



With other beauties on a mountain 

meadow. 
And she was the most beautiful of 

all; 
Then but fifteen, and still as beautiful. 
The mountain flowers grew thickly 

round about. 
I made a wreath with some of these ; 

I ask'd 
A ribbon from her hair to bind it 

with ; 
I whisper'd. Let me crown you Queen 

of Beauty, 
And softly placed the chj^plet on her 

head. 
A color, which has color'd all my life, 
Flush'd in her face ; then I was call'd 

away ; 
And presently all rose, and so de- 
parted. 
Ah ! she had thrown my chaplet on 

the grass. 
And there I found it. 

[Lets his hands fall, holding wreath 

desjiondingly. 
Lady Giovanna (after jiause). How 

long since do you say ? 
Count. That was the very year be- 
fore you married. 
Lady Giovanna. When I was mar- 
ried you were at the wars. 
Count. Had she not thrown my 

chaplet on the grass. 
It may be I had never seen the wars. 
[Replaces wreath ivhence lie had 

taken it. 
Lady Giovanna. Ah, but, my lord, 

there ran a rumor then 
That j'ou were kill'd in battle. I can 

tell j^ou 
True tears that year were shed for 

you in Florence. 
Count. It might have been as M'ell 

for me. Unhappily 
I was but wounded by the enemy 

there 
And then imprisoned. 

Lady Giovanna. Happily, however, 
I see you quite recover'd of your 

wound. 
Count. No, no, not quite. Madonna, 

not yet, not yet. 

Re-enter Filippo. 

Filippo. My lord, a word with you. 

Count. Pray, pardon me ! 

[Lady Giovanna crosses, and passes 

behind chair and takes down 

ivreath ; then goes to chair by 

table. 
Count (to Filippo). What is it, 

Filippo 1 
Filippo. Spoons, your lordship. 
Count. Spoons ! 

Filippo. Yes, my lord, for wasn't 



THE FALCON. 



(Al 



my lady born with a golden spoon in 
her ladyship's mouth, and we haven't 
never so mucli as a silver one for the 
golden lips of lier ladyship. 

Count. Have we not half a score 

of silver spoons ? 
FiUppo. Half o' one, my lord ! 
Count. How half of one ? 
Filipjw. I trod upon him even now, 
my lord, in my hurry, and broke him. 
Count. And the other nine ? 
Filippo. Sold ! but shall I not mount 
with your lordship's leave to her lady- 
ship's castle, in your lordship's and 
her ladysliip's name, and confer with 
her ladyship's seneschal, and so des- 
cend again with some of her ladyshiji's 
own ajjpurtenances ? 

Count. Why — no, man. Only see 
your cloth be clean. 

\_Exlt Filippo. 
Lady Giovanna. Ay, ay, this faded 
ribbon Avas the mode 
In Florence ten years back. What's 

here ? a scroll 
Pinn'd to the wreath. 

My lord, you liave said so much 
Of this i^oor wreath that I was bold 

enough 
To take it down, if but to guess what 

flowers 
Had made it ; and I find a written 

scroll 
That seems to run in rliymings. 
Might I read t 
Count. Ay, if you will. 
Lacljj Giovanna. It should be if you 
can. 
(Reads.) "Dead mountain." Nay, 

for who could trace a hand 
So .wild and staggering ? 

Count. This was penn'd, Madonna, 
Close to the grating on a winter 

morn 
In the perpetual twilight of a prison. 
When he that made it, having his 

right hand 
Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his 
left. 
Lady Giovanna. Oh heavens ! the 
very letters seem to shake 
"With cold, with pain perhaps, ijoor 

prisoner ! Well, 
Tell me the words — or better — for 

I see 
There goes a musical score along with 

them, 
Repeat them to their music. 

Count. You can touch 

No chord in me that would not answer 

you 
In music. 

Lady Giovanna. That is musically 
said. 
[Count takes guitar. Lady Gio- 
vanna sits listening icith wreath 



in her hand, and quietly removes 

scroll and places it on table at the 

end of song. 
Count {sings, playing guitar). "Dead 

mountain flowers, dead mouu- 

tain-meadow flowers, 
Dearer than when j'ou made your 

mountain gay, 
Sweeter than any violet of to-day, 
Richer than all the wide world-wealth 

of J\Iay, 
To me, tho' all your bloom has died 

away. 
You bloom again, dead nioimtain- 

raeadow flt)\vers." 

Enter Elisabetta ^vith cloth. 

Eliscdietta. A word with you, my 

lord ! 
Count (singing). " O mountain 

flowers ! " 
Elisabetta. A word, my lord ! 

(Louder.) 
Count (sings). " Dead flowers ! " 
Elisabetta. A word, my lord! 

(Louder.) 

Count. I pray you pardon me again ! 

[Lady Giovanna, looking at wreath. 

Count (to Elisabetta). What is it ? 

Elisabetta. My lord, we have but 

one piece of earthenware to serve the 

salad in to my lady, and that cracked ! 

Count. Why then, that flower'd 

bowl my ancestor 

Fetch'd from the farthest east — we 

never use it 
For fear of breakage — but this day 

has brought 
A great occasion. You can take it, 
nurse ! 
Elisabetta. I did take it, my lord, 
but what with my lady's coming that 
had so flurried me, and what with the 
fear of breaking it, I did break it, my 
lord : it is broken ! 

Count. My one thing left of value 
in the world ! 
No matter ! see your cloth be whito 
as snow ! 
Elisabetta (pointing thro' ivindow). 
White 1 I warrant thee, my son, as 
the snow yonder on the very tip-top 
o' the mountain. 

Count. And yet to speak white 

truth, my good old mother, 

I have seen it like the snow on the 

moraine. 

Elisabetta. How can your lordship 

say so ? There, my lord ! 

\_Lays cloth. 
O my dear son, be not unkind to me. 
And one word more. 

[ Going — returns. 
Count (touching guitar). Good! let it 
be but one. 



618 



THE FALCON. 



Elisabetta. Hath she return'd thy 

love "? 
Count. Not yet ! 

Elisabetta. And will she 1 

Count {looking at Lady Giovanna). 

I scarce believe it ! 
Elisabetta. Shame upon her then ! 
\_Exit. 
Count (sings). " Dead mountain 
flowers " — 

Ah well, my nurse has broken 
The thread of 'my dead flowers, as she 

has broken 
My china bowl. My memory is as 
dead. [Goes and replaces guitar. 
Strange that the words at home with 

me so long 
Should fly like bosom friends when 

needed most. 
So by ycur leave if you would hear 

the rest. 
The wi'iting. 

Lady Giovanna (holding wreath 
toward him). There! my lord, 
you are a poet, 
And can you not imagine that the 

wreath, 
Set, as you say, so lightly on her head, 
Fell with her motion as she rose, and 

she, 
A girl, a child, then but fifteen, how- 
ever 
Flutter'd or flatter'd by your notice of 

her. 
Was yet too bashful to return for it 1 
Count. Was it so indeed ? was it so ? 
was it so 1 
[Leans forward to take wreath, and 
touches Lady Giovanna's hand, 
ichich she withdraws hustili/ ; he 
places wreath on corner of chair. 
Lady Giovanna (with digniti/). I did 
not say, my lord, that it was so ; 
I said 3'ou might imagine it was so. 

Enter Filippo with bowl of salad, which 
he places on table. 

Filippo. Here's a fine salad for my 
lady, for tho' we have been a soldier, 
and ridden by his lordsliip's side, and 
seen the red of the battle-field, yet are 
we now drill-sergeant to his lordship's 
lettuces, and jjrofess to be great in 
green things and in garden-stuff. 

Lady Giovanna. I thank you, good 
Filippo. [Exit Filippo. 

Enter Elisabetta with bird on a dish 
which she places on table. 

Elisabetta (close to tabic). Here's a 
fine fowl for my lady ; I had scant 
time to do liim in. I hope he be not 
underdone, for we be undone in the 
doinsi of him. 



Lady Giovanna. I thank you, my 

good nurse. 
Filippo (re-entering icith plate of 
prunes). And here are fine fruits for 
my lady — prunes, my lady, from the 
tree that my lord himself planted here 
in the blossom of his boyhood — and 
so I, Filippo, being, with your lady- 
ship's pardon, and as your ladyship 
knows, his lordship's own foster- 
brother, would commend them to 
your ladyship's most peculiar aii- 
preciation. [Puts plate on table. 

Elisabetta. Filippo ! - 
Lady Giovanna (Count leads her to 

table). Will you not eat with 

me, my lord ? 
Count. I cannot. 

Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have 

broken 
My fast already. I will pledge you. 

Wine! 
Filippo, wine ! 

[Sits near table; Filippo brings 

Jiask, Jills the Count's goblet, 

then Lady Giovanna's ; Elisa- 
betta stands at the back of Lady 

Giovanna's chair. 
Count. It is but thin and cold, 

Not like the vintage blowing round 

your castle. 
We lie too deep down in the shadow 

here. 
Your ladyship lives higher in the sun. 
[They pledge each other and drink. 
Lady Giovanna. If I might send 

you down a flask or two 
Of that same vintage ? There is iron 

in it. 
It has been much commended as a 

medicine. 
I give it my sick son, and if vou 

be 
Not quite recover'd of your wound, the 

wine 
Might help you. None has ever told 

me yet 
The story of your battle and your 

wound. 
Filippo (coining forward). I can tell 

you, my lady, I can tell you. 
Elisabetta. Filippo ! will you take 
the word out of your master's own 
mouth ? 

Filippo. Was it there to take ? Put 

it there, my lord. 
Count. Giovanna, my dear lady, in 

this same battle 
We had been beaten — they were ten 

to one. 
The trumpets of the fight had echo'd 

down, 
I and Filippo here had done our 

best, 
And, having passed unwounded from 

the field. 



THE FALCON. 



619 



Were seated sadly at a fountain side, 
Our horses grazing by us, when a 

troop, 
Laden with booty and with a flag of 
ours 

Ta'en in the fight 

Ftlippo. Ay, but we fought for it 
back. 

And kill'd 

EUsahetta. Filippo ! 

Count. A troop of horse 

Filippo. Five hundred ! 

Count. Say fifty ! 

Filippo. And we kill'd 'em by the 

score ! 
EJisabetta. Filippo ! 
Filippo. Well, well, well ! I bite my 

tongue. 
Count. We may have left their fifty 
less by five. 
However, staying not to coimt how 

many. 
But anger'd at their flaunting of our 

flag. 
We mounted, and we dashed into the 

heart of 'em. 
I wore tlie lady's chaplet round my 

neck ; 
It served me for a blessed rosary. 
I am sure that more than one brave 

fellow owed 
His death to the charm in it. 

Elisubetta. Hear that, my lady ! 

Count. I cannot tell how long we 
strove before 
Our horses fell beneath us ; down we 

went 
Crush'd, hack'd at, trampled under- 
foot. The night, 
As some cold-manner'd friend may 

strangely do us 
The truest service, had a touch of 

frost 
That help'd to check the flowing of 

the blood. 
My last sight ere I swoon'd was one 

sweet face 
Crown'd with the wreath. That seem'd 

to come and go. 
They left us there for dead ! 

EUsahetta. Hear that, my lady ! 

Filippo. Ay, and I left two fingers 
there for dead. See, my lady ! 

\^Shoicin<i his hand. 
Lady Giovanna. I see, Filippo ! 
Filippo. And I have small hope of 
the gentleman gout in my great toe. 
Lady GioiKtnna. And why, Filippo ? 
[Smilinfj absenthj. 
Filippo. I left him there for dead 

too! 
Elisabetta. She smiles at him — how 
hard the woman is ! 
My lady, if j'our ladyship were not 
Too proud to look upon the garland. 



Would find it stain'd — 

Count (rising). Silence, Elisabetta! 
Elisabetta. Stain'd with the blood of 
the best heart that ever 
Beat for one woman. 

\_Points to icreath on chair. 
Lady Giovanna (rising slowly). I can 

eat no more ! 
Count. You have but trifled with 
our homely salad. 
But dallied with a single lettuce-leaf ; 
Not eaten anything. 

Lady Giovanna. Nay, nay, I cannot. 
You know, my lord, I told you I was 

troubled. 
My one child Florio lying still so 

sick, 
I bound myself, and by a solemn 

vow, 
That I would touch no flesh till he 

were well 
Here, or else well in Heaven, where all 
is well. 
[Elisabetta clears table of bird and 
salad: Filippo snatches up the 
plate of prunes and holds them to 
Lady Giovanna. 
Filippo. But the prunes, my lady, 

from the tree that his lordship 

Lady Giovanna. Not no^y, Filippo. 
My lord Federigo, 
Can I not speak with you once more 
alone ? 
Count. You hear, Filippo ? My 

good fellow, go ! 
Filippo. But the prunes that your 

lordship 

Elisabetta. Filippo ! 

Count. Ay, prune our company of 

thine own and go ! 
Elisabetta. Filippo ! 
Filippo (turning). Well, well ! the 
women ! [Exit. 

Count. And thou too leave us, my 

dear nurse, alone. 
Elisabetta (folding up cloth and going). 
And me too ! Ay, the dear nurse will 
leave you alone ; but, for all that, she 
that has eaten the yolk is scarce like 
to swallow the shell. 

l_Turns and curtseys stiffly to Lady 
Giovanna, then exit. Lady 
Giovanna takes out diamond 
necklace from casket. 
Lady Giovanna. I have anger'd your 
good nurse; these old-world ser- 
vants 
Are all but flesh and blood with those 

they serve. 
My lord, I have a present to return 

you. 
And afterwards a boon to crave of 
you. 
Count. No, my most honor'd and 
long-worshipt lad\'. 
Poor Federigo degli Alberighi 



620 



THE FALCON. 



Takes nothing in return from you 

except 
Return of his affection — can deny 
Nothing to you that you require of 
him. 
Lady Giovanna. Then I require you 
to take back your diamonds — 
{.Offering necklace. 
I doubt not they are yours. No other 

heart 
Of such magnificence in courtesy 
Beats — out of heaven. They seem'd 

too rich a prize 
To trust with any messenger. I came 
In person to return them. 

\_Count draics back. 
If the phrase 
" Return " displease you, we will say 
— exchange them 

For your — for your 

Count (takes a step toward her and then 
back). For mine — and what of 
mine "? 
Ladi/ Giovanna. Well, shall we say 
this wreath and your sweet 
rhymes "? 
Count. But have you ever worn my 

diamonds ? 
Lady Giovanna. No! 

For that wpuld seem accepting of your 

love. 
I cannot brave my brother — but be 

sure 
That I shall never marry again, my 
lord! 
Count. Sure ? 
Lady Giovanna. Yes ! 
Count. Is this your brother's order ? 
Lady Giovanna. No ! 

For he would marry me to the richest 

man 
In Florence ; but I think you know 

the saying — 
" Better a man without riches, than 
riches without a man." 
Count. A noble saying — and acted 
on would yield 
A nobler breed of men and women. 

Lady, 
I find you a shrewd bargainer. The 

wreath 
That once you wore outvalues twenty- 
fold 
The diamonds that you never deign'd 

to wear. 
But lay them there for a moment ! 
[Points to table. Lady Giovanna 
places necklace on table. 

And be you 
Gracious enough to let me know the 

boon 
By granting wJiich, if aught be mine 

to grant, 
I should be made more happy than I 
hoped 



Ever to be again. 

Lady Giovanna. Then keep your 

wreath, 
But you will find me a shrewd bar- 
gainer still. 
I cannot keep your diamonds, for the 

gift 
I ask for, to my mind and at this 

present 
Outvalues all the jewels upon earth. 
Count. It should be love that thus 

outvalues all. 
You speak like love, and yet you love 

me not. 
I have nothing in this world but love 

for you. 
Lady Giovanna. Love 1 it is love, 

love for my dying boy, 
Moves me to ask it of you. 

Count. What "? my time ? 

Is it my time ? Well, I can give my 

time 
To him that is a part of you, your son. 
Shall I return to the castle with vou ? 

Shall I 
Sit by him, read to him, tell him my 

tales. 
Sing him my songs ? You know that 

I can touch 
The ghittern to some purpose. 

Lady Giovanna. No, not that ! 

I thank you heartily for that — and 

you, 

I doubt not from your nobleness of 

nature, 
Will pardon me for asking Avhat I ask. 
Count. Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I 

that once 
The wildest of the random youth of 

Florence 
Before I saw you — all my nobleness 
Of nature, as you deign to call it, 

draws 
From you, and from my constancy to 

you. 
No more, but speak. 

Lady Giovanna. I will. You know- 
sick people. 
More specially sick children, have 

strange fancies. 
Strange longings ; and to thwart them 

in their mood 
May work them grievous harm at 

times, may even 
Hasten their end. I would you had a 

son! 
It might be easier then for you to 

make 
Allowance for a mother — her — who 

comes 
To rob you of your one delight on 

earth. 
How often has my sick boy ycarn'd 

for this ! 
I have put him off as often ; but to- 
day 



THE FALCON. 



621 



I dared not — so much weaker, so 

much worse 
For last day's journey. I was weep- 
ing for liim ; 
He gave me his hand : " I should be 

well again 

If the good Count would give me " 

Count. Give me. 
Ladij Giovunna. His falcon. 
Count (starts back). My falcon ! 
Lady Giovannu. Yes, your falcon, 

Federigo ! 
Count. Alas, I cannot ! 
Lad 11 Giovanna. Cannot ? Even so ! 
I fear'd as much. O this unhappy 

world ! 
How shall I break it to him 1 how 

shall 1 tell him ? 
The boy may die : more blessed were 

the rags 
Of some pale beggar-woman seeking 

alms 
For her sick son, if he were like to 

live, 
Than all my childless wealth, if mine 

must die. 
I was to blame — the love you said 

you bore me — 
My lord, we thank you for your 

entertainment, 

[ With a stateli/ curtsey. 
And so return — Heaven help him ! — 

to our son. ITurns. 

Count (rushes forward). Stay, Stay, 

I am most unlucky, most un- 
happy. 
You never had look'd in on me be- 
fore. 
And when j'ou came and dipt 3^our 

sovereign head 
Thro' these low doors, you ask'd to 

eat with me. 
I had but emptiness to set before 

you, 
No not a draught of milk, no not an 

Nothing but my brave bird, my noble 
falcon. 

My comrade of the house, and of the 
field. 

She had to die for it — she died for 
you. 

Perhaps I thought with those of old, 
the nobler 

The victim was, the more acceptable 

Might be the sacrifice. I fear you 
scarce 

Will thank me for your entertain- 
ment now. 



Lady Giovanna {returniny). I bear 

with him no longer. 
Count. No, Madonna ! 
And he will have to bear with it as he 

may. 
Lady Giovanna. I break with him 

for ever ! 
Count. Yes, Giovanna, 

But he will keep his love to you for 

ever! 
Lady Giovanna. You "? 3'ou "? not 

you ! JNIy brother ! my hard 

brother ! 

Federigo, Federigo, I love you ! 
Spite of ten thousand brothers, Fed- 
erigo. [_FuUs at his feet. 

Count [impetuous] ij). Why then the 
dying of my noble bird 
Hath served me better than her living 
— then 

[Takes diamonds from table. 
These diamonds are both yours and 

mine — have won 
Their value again — beyond all mar- 
kets — there 

1 lay them for the first time roimd 

your neck. 

[Lays necklace round her neck. 
And then this chaplet — No more 

feuds, but peace. 
Peace and conciliation ! I will 

make 
Your brother love me. See, I tear 

away 
The leaves were darken'd by the bat- 
tle — 
[Pulls leaves off and throws them 
down. 

— crown you 
Again with the same crown my Queen 
of Beauty. 

[Places ivreath on her head. 
Else — I could almost think that the 

dead garland 
Will break once more into living blos- 
som. 
Nay, nay, I pray you rise. 

[^Raises her with both hands. 

We two together 

Will help to heal your son — your 

son and mine — 
We shall do it — we shall do it. 

[Embraces her. 
The purpose of my being is accom- 

plish'd. 
And I am happy ! 

Lady Giovanna. And I too, Fed- 
erigo. 



BECKET, 



To THE Lord Chancellor, 

THE EIGHT HONORABLE EARL OF SELBORXE. . 

Mr Dear Seleorne, — To j'ou, the honored Chancellor of our own day, I dedicate this 
dramatic memorial of your great predecessor; — which, altho' not intended iu its present 
form to meet the exigencies of our modern theatre, has nevertheless — for so you have 
assured me — won your approbation. Ever yours, 

TENNTSOX. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Henry II. (son of the Earl of Anjou). 

Thomas Becket, Chancellor of England, afterwards Archbishop of Canterhury. 

Gilbert Eoliot, Bishop of London. 

Roger, Archbishop of York. 

Bishop of Hereford. 

Hilary, Bishop of Chichester. 

Jocelyn, Bishop of Salisbury, 

John of Salisbury I /• • j ^ e> ; ^ 
TT T> ^ friends of Becket. 

Herbert of Bosham ) •' -^ 

Walter Map, reputed author of'^ Golias," Latin poems against the priesthood. 

King Louis of France. 

Geoffrey, son of Rosamund and Henry. 

Grim, a monk of Cambridge. 

Sir Reginald Fitzurse ") 

Sir Richard de Brito ! the four knir/hts of the King's household, enemies of 

Sir William de Tracy j Becket. 

Sir Hugh de Morville J 

De Broc of Saltwood Castle. 

Lord Leicester. 

Philip de Eleemosyna. 

Tavo Knight Templars. 

John of Oxford (called the Swearer). 

Eleanor of Ac^uitaine, Queen of England (divorced from Louis of France). 

Rosamund de Clifford. 

Margery. 

Knights, Monks, Beggars, etc. 



PROLOGUE. 

A Castle in Normandy. Interior 
OF THE Hall. Roofs of a City 
SEEN thro' Windows. 

Henry and Becket at chess. 
Henry. So then our good Arch- 
bishop Theobald 
Lies dying. 

Becket. I am grieved to know as 

much. 
Henry. But we must have a 
mightier man than he 



For his successor. 

Becket. Have 3^ou thought of one ? 
Henry. A cleric lately poison'd his 
own mother, 
And being brought before the courts 

of the Church, 
They but degraded him. I hope they 

whipt him. 
I would have hang'd him. 

Becket. ' It is your move. 

Henry. Well — there. \^Moves. 

The Church in the pell-mell of 

Stephen's time 
Hath climb'd the throne and almost 
clutch'd the crown ; 



BECKET. 



623 



But by the royal customs of our realm 
The Church should hold her baronies 

of me, 
Like other lords amenable to law. 
I'll have them written down and made 
the law. 
Becl'et. My liege, I move my bishop. 
Henrji. And if I live, 

No man without my leave shall ex- 
communicate 
My tenants or my household. 

Bechet. Look to your king. 

Henri/. No man without my leave 
shall cross the seas 
To set the Pope against me — I pray 
your pardon. 
Becket. Well — will you move ? 
Henri/. There. [xl/oi-es. 

Becket. Check — you 

move so wildly. 
Henri/. There then ! l^^foves. 

Becket. AVhy — there then, for you 
see my bishop 
Hath brought your king to a stand- 
still. You are beaten. 
Henry {kids over t/ie board). Why, 
there then — down go bishop 
and king together. 
I loathe being beaten ; had I fixt my 

fancy 
Upon the game I should have beaten 

thee. 
But that was vagabond. 

Becket. Where, my liege ? 

With Phryne, 

Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another ? 

Henri/. My Rosamund is no Lais, 

Thomas Becket ; 

And yet she plagues me too — no 

fault in her — 
But that I fear the Queen would have 
her life. 
Becket. Put her away, put her away, 
my liege ! 
Put her away into a nunnery ! 
Safe enough there from her to whom 

tliou art bound 
By Holy Church. And wherefore 

shoiild she seek 
The life of Rosamund de Clifford more 
Than that of other paramours of 
thine ? 
Henry. How dost thou know I am 

not wedded to her ? 
Becket. How shf)uld I know ? 
Henri/. That is my secret, Thomas. 
Becket. State secrets should be pa- 
tent to the statesman 
W^ho serves and loves his king, and 

whom the king 
Loves not as statesman, but true lover 
and friend. 
Henri/. Come, come, thou art but 
deacon, not yet bishop. 
No, nor archbishop, nor mv confessor 
yet. 



I would to God thou wert, for I should 

find 
An easy father confessor in thee. 
Becket. St. Denis, that thou shouldst 
not. I should beat 
Thy kingship as my bishop hath 
beaten it. 
Henry. Hell take thy bishoi) then, 
and my kingship too ! 
Come, come, I love thee and I know 

thee, I know thee, 
A doter on white pheasant-flesh at 

feasts, 
A sauce-deviser for tliy days of fish, 
A dish-designer, and most amorous 
Of good old red sound liberal Gascon 

wine : 
Will not thy body rebel, man, if thou 
flatter it ? 
Becket. That palate is insane which 
cannot tell 
A good dish from a bad, new wine 
from old. 
Henry. Well, who loves wine loves 

woman. 
Becket. So I do. 

Men are God's trees, and women are 

God's flowers ; 
And when the Gascon wine mounts to 

my head. 
The trees are all the statelier, and the 

flowers 
Are all the fairer. 

Henry. And thy thoughts, 

thy fancies 1 
Becket. Good dogs, my liege, well 
train'd, and easily call'd 
Off from the game. 

Henry. Save for some once or twice, 
When they ran down the game and 
worried it. 
Becket. No, my liege, no ! — not 

once — in God's name, no ! 
Henry. Nay, then, I take thee at 
thy word — believe thee 
The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's 

hall. 
And so this Rosamund, my true heart- 
wife. 
Not Eleanor — she whom I love indeed 
As a woman should be loved — Why 

dost thou smile 
So dolorously ? 

Becket. My good liege, if a man 
Wastes himself among women, how 

should he love 
A woman, as a woman should be 
loved? 
Henry. How shouldst thou know 
that never hast loved one ? 
Come, I would give her to thy care in 

England 
When I am out in Normandy or Anjoii. 
Becket. ^lylord, I am j-our subject, 

not your 

Henri/. Pander. 



624 



BECKET. 



God's eyes ! I know all that — not my 

purveyor 
Of pleasures, but to save a life — her 

life; 
Ay, and the soul of Eleanor from hell- 
fire. 
I have built a secret bower in Eng- 
land, Thomas, 
A nest in a bush. 

Becket. And where, my liege ? 
Henri) [ichispers). ' Thine ear. 

Becket. That's lone enough. 
Henrii {lai/iin/ pa/ier on table). This 
chart here mark'd " Her JBoirer," 
Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a 

circling wood, 
A hundred pathways running every- 
way. 
And then a brook, a bridge ; and after 

that 
This labyrinthine brickwork maze in 

maze, 
And then another wood, and in the 

midst 
A garden and my Rosamund. Look, 

this line — 
The rest you see is color'd green — 

but this 
Draws thro' the chart to her. 

Becket. This blood-red line 1 

Henry. Ay ! blood, perchance, ex- 
cept thou see to her. 
Becket. And where is she ? There 

in her English nest ? 
Henrij. Would God she were — no, 
here within the city. 
We take her from her secret bower in 

Anjou 
And jiass her to her secret bower in 

England. 
She is ignorant of all but that I lovelier. 
Becket. My liege, I pray thee let me 
hence : a widow 
And orphan child, whom one of thy 

wild barons 

Henry. Ay, ay, but swear to see her 

in England. 
Becket. Well, well, I swear, but not 

to please myself. 
Henry. Whatever come between us ? 
Becket. What should come 

Between us, Henry 1 

Henry. Nay — I know not, Thomas. 

Becket. What need then 1 Well — 

whatever come between us. 

[ Going. 
Henry. A moment ! thou didst help 
me to my throne 
In Theobald's time, and after by thy 

wisdom 
Hast kept it firm from shaking ; but 

now I, 
For my realm's sake, myself must be 

the wizard 
To raise that tempest which will set it 
trembling 



<,)nly tu base it deeper. I, true son 
Of Holy Church — no croucher to the 

Gregories 
That tread the kings their children 

underheel — 
Must curb her; and the Holy Father, 

while 
This Barbarossa butts him from his 

chair. 
Will need my help — be facile to my 

hands. 
Now is my time. Yet — lest there 

should be Hashes 
And fulminations from the side of 

Rome, 
An interdict on England — I will 

have 
My young son Henry crown'd the 

King of England, 
That so the Paiaal bolt may jjass by 

England, 
As seeming his, not mine, and fall 

abroad. 
I'll have it done — and now. 

Becket. Surely too young 

Even for this shadow of a crown ; and 

tho' 
I love him heartily, I can spy already 
A strain of hard and headstrong in 

him. Say, 
The Queen should play his kingship 
against tliine ! 
Henry. I will not think so, Thomas. 
Who shall crown him ? 
Canterbury is dying. 

Becket. The next Canterbury. 

Henry. And who shall he be, my 

friend Thomas ? Who ? 
Becket. Name him ; the Holy Father 

will confirm him. 
Henry {lays his hand on Becket's 

shoulder). Here! 
Becket. Mock me not. I am not 
even a monk. 
Thy jest — no more. Why — look — 

is this a sleeve 
For an archbishop ? 

Henry. But the arm within 

Is Becket's, who hath beaten down my 
foes. 
Becket. A soldier's, not a spiritual 

arm. 
Henry. I lack a spiritual soldier, 
Thomas — 
A man of this world and the next to 
boot. 
Becket. There's Gilbert Foliot. 
Henry. He ! too thin, too thin. 

Thou art the man to fill out the 

Church robe ; 
Your Foliot fasts and fawns too much 
for me. 
Becket. Roger of York. 
Henry. Roger is Roger of York. 
King, Church, and State to him but 
foils wherein 



BECKET. 



625 



To set that precious jewel, Roger of j 

York. I 

No. 

Becket. Henry of Winchester ? 
Henri/. Him who crown'd Stephen — 
King Stephen's brother ! No ; too 

royal for me. 
And I'll have no more Anselms. 

Becket. Sire, the business 

Of thy wliole kingdom waits me : let 
me go. 
Henrij. Answer me first. 
Becket. Then for thy barren jest 
Take thou mine answer in bare com- 
monplace — 
Nolo episcopari. 

Henry. Ay, but Nolo 

Archiepiscopari, my good friend, 
Is quite another matter. 

Becket. A more lawful one. 

Make me archbishop ! Why, my 

liege, I know- 
Some three or four poor jiriests a 

thousand times 
Fitter for this grand function. Me 

archbishop ! 
God's favor and king's favor might so 
clash 

That thou and I That were a 

jest indeed ! 
Henrt/. Thou angerest me, man : I 
do not jest. 

Enter Eleanor and Sir Eegix.\ld 

FiTZURSE. 

Elecuior {sinr/inrf). Over! the sweet 
svmimer closes, 
The reign of the roses is done 

Henry {to Becket, who is gain;/). 
Thou siialt not go. I have not ended 
with thee. 

Eleanor (seeing chart on table). This 
chart with the red line ! her bower ! 
whose bower 7 

Henry. The chart is not mine, but 
Becket's : take it, Thomas. 

Eleanor. Becket! — ay — and 
these chessmen on the floor — the 
king's crown broken ! Becket hath 
beaten thee again — and thou hast 
kicked down the board. I know thee 
of old. 

Henry. True enough, my mind was 
set upon other matters. 

Eleanor. What matters ? State 
matters 1 love matters ? 

Henry. My love for thee, and thine 
for me. 

Eleanor. Over! the sweet summer 
closes. 
The reign of the roses is done ; 

Over and gone with the roses. 
And over and gone with the sun. 

Here ; but our sun in Aquitaine 
lasts longer. I would I were in Aqui- 
taine again — your north chills me. 



Over ! the sweet summer closes, 
And never a flower at the close ; 

Over and gone with the roses, 
And winter again and the snows. 
That was not the way I ended it first 
— but unsymmetrically, preposter- 
ously, illogically, out of passion, with- 
out art — like a song of the people. 
Will you have it ? The last Parthian 
shaft of a forlorn Cupid at the King's 
left breast, and all left-handedness 
and under-handedness. 

And never a flower at the close, 

Over and gone with the roses, 
Not over and gone with the rose. 
True, one rose will outblossom the 
rest, one rose in a bower. I speak 
after my fancies, for I am a Trouba- 
dour, you know, and won the violet at • 
Toulouse ; but my voice is harsli 
here, not in tune, a nightingale out of 
season ; for marriage, rose or no rose, 
has killed the golden violet. 

Becket. Madam, you do ill to scorn 
w'edded love. 

Eleanor. So I do. Louis of France 
loved me, and I dreamed that I loved 
Louis of France : and I loved Henry of 
England, and Henry of England 
dreamed that he loved rae ; but the 
marriage-garland withers even with 
the putting on, the bright link rusts 
with the breath of the first after- 
marriage kiss, the harvest moon is 
the ripening of the harvest, and the 
honeymoon is the gall of love ; he 
dies of his honeymoon. I could pity 
this poor world myself that is no bet- 
ter ordered. 

Henry. Dead is he, my Queen 1 
What, altogether ? Let me swear 
nay to that by this cross on thy neck. 
God's eyes ! what a lovely cross ! what 
jewels ! 

Eleanor. Doth it please you ? Take 
it and wear it on that hard heart of 
yours — there. \_Gives it to him. 

Henry (puts it on). On this left 
breast before so hard a heart. 
To hide the scar left by thy Parthian 
dart. 

Eleanor. Has my simple song set 
you jingling "? Nay, if I took and 
translated tliat hard heart into our 
Provencal facilities, I could so play 
about it with the rhyme 

Henry. That the heart were lost in 
the rhyme and the matter in the metre. 
May we not pray you, Madam, to spare 
us the hardness of your facility ''. 

Eleanor. The wells of Castaly are 
not wasted upon the desert. We did 
but jest. 

Henry. There's no jest on the 
brows of Herbert there. What is it, 
Herbert ? 



626 



BECKET. 



Enter Herbert of Bosham. 

Herbert. My liege, the good Arch- 
bishop is no more. 

Henri/. Peace to his soul ! 

Herbert. I left him with peace on 
his face — that sweet other-world 
smile, which will be reflected in the 
spiritual body among the angels. But 
he longed much to see your Grace and 
the Cliancellor ere he past, and his 
last words were a commendation of 
Tiiomas Becket to your Grace as his 
successor in the archbishoprick. 

Henrij. Ha, Becket ! thou remem- 
berest our talk ! 

Becket. My heart is full of tears 
— I have no answer. 

Henrij. Well, well, old men must 
die, or the worltl woidd grow mouldy, 
would only breed the past again. 
Come to me to-morrow. Thou hast 
but to hold out thy hand. Meanwhile 
the revenues are mine. A-hawking, 
a-hawking ! If I sit, I grow fat. 

\_Leaps over the table, and exit. 

Becket. He did prefer me to the 
chancellorship, 
Believing I should ever aid the 

Churcli — 
But have I done it ? He commends 

me now 
From out his grave to this arch- 
bishoprick. 

Herbert. A dead man's dying wish 
should be of weight. 

Becket. His should. Come with 
me. Let me learn at full 
The manner of his death, and all he 
said. 

[Exeunt Herbert and Becket. 

Eleanor. Fitzurse, that chart with 
the red line — thou sawest it — her 
bower. 

Fitzurse. Rosamund's ? 

Eleanor. Ay — there lies the secret 
of her whereabouts, and the King 
gave it to his Chancellor. 

Fitzurse. To this son of a London 
merchant — how your Grace must 
hate him. 

Eleanor. Hate him '? as brave a 
soldier as Henry and a goodlier man : 
but thou — dost thou love this Chan- 
cellor, that thou hast sworn a volun- 
tary allegiance to him ? 

Fitzurse. Not for my love toward 
him, but because he had the love of 
the King. How should a baron love 
a beggar on horseback, with the ret- 
iniie of three kings behind him, out- 
roj-alling royalty ? Besides, he holp 
the King to break down our castles, 
for tlie which I hate him. 

Eleanor. For the which I honor 
him. Statesman not Cliurchman he. 



A great and sound policy that : I 
could embrace him for it : you could 
not see the King for the kinglings. 

Fitzurse. Ay, but he speaks to a 
noble as tho' he were a churl, and to 
a churl as if he were a noble. 

Eleanor. Pride of the plebeian ! 

Fitzurse. And this plebeian like to 
be Archbishop ! 

Eleanor. I'rue, and I have an in- 
herited loathingof these black sheepof 
thePapacy. Archbishoi)? Icanseefur- 
ther into a man than our hot-headed 
Henry, and if there ever come feud 
between Church and Crown, and I do 
not then charm this secret out of our 
loyal Thomas, I am not Eleanor. 

Fitzurse. Last night I followed a 
woman in the city here. Her face 
was veiled, but the back methought 
was Rosamund — his i^aramour, thy 
rival. I can feel for thee. 

Eleanor. Thou feel for me ! — par- 
amour — rival! King Louis had no 
paramours, and I loved him none the 
more. Henry had many, and I loved 
him none the less — now neitlier more 
nor less — not at all; tlie cup's empty. 
I would she were but his i)aramour, 
for men tire of their fancies ; but I 
fear this one fancy hatii taken root, 
and borne blossom too, and she, whom 
the King loves indeed, is a power in 
the State. Rival ! — ay, and when 
the King passes, there may come a 
crash and embroilment as in Stephen's 
time ; and her children — canst thou 
not — that secret matter which would 
heat the King against thee (whispers 
him and he starts). Nay, that is safe 
with me as with thyself : but canst 
thou not — thou art drowned in debt 
— thou shalt have our love, our 
silence, and our gold — canst thou 
not — if thou light u^jon her — free 
me from her ? 

Fitzurse. Well, Madam, I have 
loved her in my time. 

Eleanor. No, ni}' bear, thou hast 
not. My Courts of Love would have 
held thee guiltlessof love — the fine at- 
tractions and repulses, the delicacies, 
the subtleties. 

Fitzurse. Madam, I loved accord- 
ing to the main purpose and intent of 
nature. 

Eleanor. I warrant thee ! thou 
wouldst hug thy Cupid till his ribs 
cracked — enough of this. Follow 
me this Rosamund day and night, 
whithersoever she goes ; track her, if 
tiiou canst, even into the King's lodg- 
ing, that I may (clenches her jist) — 
may at least have my cry against 
him and her, — and thou in my way 
shouldst be jealous of the King, for 



BECKET. 



621 



thou in thy way didst once, what shall 
I call it, attect her thine own self. 

Fitzurse. Ay, but the young colt 
winced and whinnied and flung up her 
heels ; and then the King came honey- 
ing about her, and this Becket, her 
father's friend, like enough staved 
us from her. 

Eleanor. Us ! 

Fitzurse. Yea, by the Blessed Vir- 
gin ! There were more than I buzzing 
round the blossom — De Tracy — even 
that flint De Brito. 

Eleanor. Carry her oft' among you; 
run in upon her and devour her, one 
and all of you ; make her as hateful 
to herself and to the King, as she is 
to me. 

Fitzurse. I and all would be glad 
to wreak our spite on the rosefaced 
minion of the King, and bring her to 
the level of the dust, so that the 
King 

Eleanor. Let her eat it like the 
serpent, and be driven out of her 
paradise. 

ACT I. 

SCENE 1.— Becket's House ix Lon- 
don. Chamber barely furnished. 
Becket unrobing. Herbert of 
Bosham and Servant. 

Servaiit. Shall I not help your lord- 
ship to your rest ? 
Becket. Friend, am I so much bet- 
ter than thyself 
That thou shouldst help me 1 Thou 

art wearied out 
With this day's work, get thee to thine 

own bed. 
Leave me with Herbert, friend. 

[Exit Servant. 
Help me off, Herbert, with this — and 
this. 
Herbert. Was not the people's 
blessing as we past 
Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy 
blood 1 
Becket. The people know their 
Church a tower of strength, 
A bulwark against Throne and Bar- 
onage. 
Too heavy for me, this ; off with it, 
Herbert ! 
Herbert. Is it so much heavier than 

thy Chancellor's robe ? 
Becket. No ; but the Chancellor's 
and the Archbishop's 
Together more than mortal man can 
bear. 
Herbert. Not heavier than thine 

armor at Thoulouse ? 
Becket. O Herbert, Herbert, in my 
chancellorship 



I more tlian once have gone against 

the Church. 
Herbert. To please the King ? 
Becket. Aj', and the King of kings, 
Or justice ; for it seem'd to me but just 
The Church sliould pay her scutage 

like the lords. 
But hast thou heard this cry of Gil- 
bert Foliot 
That I am not the man to be your 

Primate, 
For Henry could not work a miracle — 
Make an Archbishop of a soldier ? 

Herbert. Ay, 

For Gilbert Foliot held himself the 

man. 
Becket. Am I the man 1 IMy 

mother, ere she bore me, 
Dream'd that twelve stars fell glitter- 
ing out of heaven 
Into her bosom. 

Herbert. Ay, the fire, the light. 

The si^irit of the twelve Apostles 

enter'd 
Into thy making. 

Becket. And when I was a child. 
The A^irgin, in a vision of my sleep. 
Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. 

Dream, 
Or prophecy, that ? 

Herbert. Well dream and prophecy 

both. 
Becket. And when I was of Theo- 
bald's household, once — 
The good old man would sometimes 

have his jest — 
He took his mitre off, and set it on me. 
And said, "My young Archbishop — 

thou wouldst make 
A stately Archbishop ! " Jest or 

prophecy there ? 
Herbert. Both, Thomas, both. 
Becket. Am I the man ? That rang 
Within my head last night, and when 

I slept 
Methought I stood in Canterburj' 

Minster, 
And spake to the Lord God, and said, 

" O Lord, 
I have been a lover of wines, and 

delicate meats. 
And secular splendors, and a favorer 
Of players, and a courtier, and a 

feeder 
Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and 

lions, and lynxes. 
Am I the man 1 " And the Lord an- 

swer'd me, 
" Thou art the man, and all the mori 

the man." 
And then I asked as^ain, " ( ) Lord mv 

God, 
Henry the King hath been my friend, 

my brother, 
And mine uplifter in this world, and 

chosen ine 



62S 



BECKET. 



For this thy great archbishoprick, 

believing 
That I should go against the Church 

with him, 
And I shall go against him with the 

Chiirch, 
And I have said no word of this to 

liim : 
" Am / tlie man ? " And the Lord 

answer'd me, 
" Thou art the man, and all the more 

the man." 
And thereupon, methought, He drew 

toward me, 
And smote me down upon the INIinster 

floor. 
I fell. 

Herbert. God make not thee, but 

thy foes, fall. 
Becket. I fell. Why fall ? Wliy 

did He smite me ? What i 
Shall I fall off — to please the King 

once more ? 
Not fight — tho' somehow traitor to 

the King — 
My truest and mine utmost for the 

Chui'cli ? 
Herbert. Thou canst not fall that 

way. Let traitor be ; 
For how have fought thine utmost for 

the Church, 
Save from the throne of thine arch- 
bishoprick ? 
And how been made Archbishop 

hadst thou told him, 
" I mean to fight mine utmost for the 

Church, 
Against the King ? " 

Becket. But dost thou think the 

King 
Forcfed mine election ? 

Herbert. I do think the King 

Was potent in the election, and why 

not ■? 
Why should not Heaven have so 

inspired the King 1 
Be comforted. Thou art the man ^ 

be thou 
A mightier Anselm. 

Becket. I do believe thee, then. I 

am tlie man. 
And yet I seem appall'd — on such a 

sudden 
At such an eagle-height I stand and see 
The rift that runs between me and the 

King. 
I served our Theobald well when I 

was with him; 
I served King Henry well as Chan- 
cellor ; 
I am his no more, and I must serve 

the Churcli. 
This Canterbury is only less than 

Rome, 
And all my doubts I fling from me 

like dust, 



Winnow and scatter all scruples to 

the wind, 
And all the puissance of the warrior. 
And all the wisdom of tiie Chancellor, 
And all the heap'd experiences of 

life, 
I cast upon the side of Canterbury — 
Our holy mother Canterbury, who 

sits 
With tatter'd robes. Laics and 

barons, thro' 
The random gifts of careless kings, 

have graspt 
Her livings, her advowsoiis, granges, 

farms. 
And goodly acres — we will make her 

whole ; 
Not one rood lost. And for these 

Royal customs, 
These ancient Royal customs — they 

are Royal, 
Not of the Church — and let them be 

anathema, 
And all that speak for them ana- 
thema. 
Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved 

too much. 
Becket. Herbert, here 

I gash myself asunder from the King, 
Tho' leaving each, a wound ; mine 

own, a grief 
To show the scar for ever — his a 

hate 
Not ever to be heal'd. 

Enter Rosamund de Clifford, y?^/wgf 
from Sir Reginald Fitzurse. 

Drops her veil. 

Becket. Rosamund de Clifford ! 

Bosamund. Save me, father, hide 
me — they follow me — and I must 
not be known. 

Becket. Pass in with Herbert there. 
\_Exeunt Rosamund and Herbert 
by side door. 

Enter Fitzcrse. 
Fitzurse. The Archbishop ! 
Becket. Ay ! what wouldst thou, 

Reginald ? 
Fitzurse. Why — why, my lord, I 

follow'd — follow'd one 

Becket. And then what follows ? 

Let me follow tiiee. 
Fitzurse. It much imports me I 

should know her name. 
Becket. What her ? 
Fitzurse. The woman that I fol- 

low'd hither. 
Becket. Perhaps it may import her 

all as much 
Not to be known. 

Fitzurse. And what care I for that ? 
Come, come, my lord Archbishop ; I 

saw that door 
Close even now upon the woman. 



BECKET. 



629 



Bexhd. Well ? 

Fitzurse (making for the door). Nay, 
let me pass, my lord, for I must 
know. 
Becket. Back, man !^ 
Fitzurse. Then tell me who and 

what she is. 
Becket. Art thou so sure thou fol- 
lowedst anything ? 
Go home, and sleep tliy wine off, for 

thine eyes 
Glare stupid-M-ild with wine. 

Fitzurse [making to the door). I 

must and Mill. 

I care not for thy new archbishoprick. 

Becket. Back, man, I tell thee ! 

What ! 

Shall I forget my new archbishoprick 

And smite thee with my crozier on the 

skull ? 
'Fore God, I am a mightier man than 
thou. 
Fitzurse. It well befits thy new 
archbishoprick 
To take the vagabond woman of the 

street 
Into thine arms ! 

Becket. O drunken ribaldry ! 

Out, beast ! out, bear ! 

Fitzurse. I shall remember this. 

Becket. Do, and begone ! 

l^Exit Fitzurse. 
\_Going to the door sees De Tracy. 
Tracy, what dost thou here ■? 
De Tract/. My lord, I follow'd 

Reginald Fitzurse. 
Becket. Follow him out ! 
De Tracg. I shall remember this 
Discourtesy. [Exit. 

Becket. Do. These be those baron- 
brutes 
That havock'dall the land in Stephen's 

day. 
Eosamund de Clifford. 

Be-enter Eosamund and Herbert. 
Rosamund. Here am I, 

Becket. Why here ? 

We gave thee to the charge of John 

of Salisbui-y, 
To pass thee to thy secret bower to- 
morrow. 
Wast thou not told to keep thyself 

from sight ? 
Rosamund. Poor bird of passage ! 

so I was ; but, father, 
They say that you are wise in winged 

things. 
And know the ways of Nature. Bar 

the bird 
From following the fled summer — a 

chink — he's out. 
Gone ! And there stole into the city 

a breath 
Full of the meadows, and it minded 

me 



Of the sweet woods of Clifford, and 

the walks 
Where I could move at pleasure, and 

I thought 
Lo ! I must out or die. 

Becket. Or out and die. 

And what hast thou to do with this 
Fitzurse ? 
Rosamund. Nothing. He sued my 
hand. I shook at him. 
He found me once alone. Nay — 

nay — I cannot 
Tell you : my father drove him and 

his friends, 
De Tracy and De Brito, from our 

castle. 
I was but fourteen and an April 

then. 
I heard him swear revenge. 

Becket. Why will you court it 

By self-exposure 1 flutter out at night ? 

Make it so hard to save a moth from 

the Are 7 

Rosamund. I have saved many of 

'em. You catch 'em, so. 

Softly, and fling them out to the free 

air. 
They burn themselves icithin-i\oov. 

Becket. Our good John 

Must speed you to your bower at 

once. The child 
Is there already. 

Rosamund. Yes — the child — the 
child — 
O rare, a whole long day of open field. 
Becket. Ay, but you go disguised. 
Rosa7nund. rare again ! 

We'll baffle them, I warrant. What 

shall it be ? 
I'll go as a nun. 

Becket. No. 

Rosamund. What, not good enough 
Even to play at nun 1 

Becket. .Dan John with a nun. 

That Map, and these new railers at 

the Cluirch 
May plaister his clean name with 

scurrilous rhvmes ! 
No! 
Go like a monk, cowling and clouding 

up 
That fatal star, thy Beauty, from the 

squint 
Of lust and glare of malice. Good 
night ! good night ! 
Bosamund. Fatlier, I am so tender 
to all hardness! 
Nay, father, first thy blessing. 
Becket. Wedded 1 

Rosamund. Father ! 

Becket. Well, well ! I ask no more. 

Heaven bless thee ! hence ! 
Rosamund. 0, holy father, when 
thou seest him next, 
Commend me to thy friend. 
Becket. What friend 1 



630 



BECKET. 



Eosamund. The King. 

Becket. Herbert, take out a score of 

armed men 
To guard this bird of passage to her 

cage ; 
And watch Fitzurse, and if he follow 

thee, 
Make him thy prisoner. I am Chan- 
cellor yet. 
[^Exeimt Herbert and Eosamund. 
Poor soul ! poor soul ! 
My friend, the King ! . . . O thou Great 

Seal of England, 
Given me by my dear friend the King 

of England — 
We long have wrought together, thou 

and I — 
Now must I send thee as a common 

friend 
To tell the King, my friend, I am 

against him. 
"We are friends no more : he will say 

that, not I. 
The worldly bond between us is dis- 
solved. 
Not yet the love : can I be under 

him 
As Chancellor ? as Archbishop over 

him ? 
Go therefore like a friend slighted by 

one 
That hath climb'd up to nobler 

company. 
Not slighted — all but nioan'd for: 

thou must go. 
I have not dishonor'd thee — I trust I. 

have not ; 
Not mangled justice. May the hand 

that next 
Inherits thee be but as true to thee 
As mine hath been ! O, my dear 

friend, the King! 

brother ! — I may come to martyr- 

dom. 

1 am martyr in myself already. — 

Herbert ! 
Herbert (re-entering). My lord, the 

town is quiet, and the moon 
Divides the whole long street with 

light and shade. 
No footfall — no Fitzurse. We have 

seen her home. 
Becket. The hog hath tumbled himr 

self into some corner. 
Some ditch, tfo snore away his drunk- 
enness 
Into the sober headache, — Nature's 

moral 
Against excess!^ Let the Great Seal 

be sent 
Back to the King to-morrow. 

Herbert. Must that be ? 

The King may rend the bearer limb 

from limb. 
Think on it again. 

Becket. Against the moral excess 



No physical ache, but failure it may 

be 
Of all we aim'd at. John of Salisbury 
Hath often laid a cold hand on my 

heats. 
And Herbert hath rebuked me even 

now. 
I will be wise and wary, not the 

soldier 
As Foliot swears it. — John, and out 

of breath ! 

Enter John of Salisbury. 

John of Scdisburii. Thomas, thou 
wast not happy taking charge 

Of this wild Rosamund to please the 
King, 

Nor am I happy having charge of 
her — 

The included Danae has escaped again 

Her tower, and her Acrisius — where 
to seek ? 

I have been about the city. 

Becket. Thou wilt find her 

Back in her lodging Go with her — 
at once — 

To-night — my men will guard you to 
the gates. 

Be sweet to her, she has many ene- 
mies. 

Send the Great Seal by daybreak. 
Both, good night ! 



SCENE II. 

Street in Northampton leading 
TO the Castle. 

Eleanor's Retainers and Becket's 
Retainers Jighting. Enter Elea- 
nor and Becket from opposite 
streets. 

Eleanor. Peace, fools ! 

Becket. Peace, friends ! what idle ■ 

brawl is this ? 
Retainer of Becket. They said — her 
Grace's people — thou wast 
found — 
Liars ! I shame to quote 'em — caught, 

my lord. 
With a wanton in thy lodging — Hell 
requite 'em ! 
Retainer of Eleanor. My liege, the 
Lord Fitzurse reported this 
In passing to the Castle even now. 
Retainer of Becket. And then they 
mock'd us and we fell upon 
'em. 
For we would live and die for thee, 

my lord. 
However kings and queens may frown 
on thee. 
Becket {to his Retainers). Go, go — 
no more of this ! 



BECKET. 



631 



Eleanor (foAer Retainers). Away! — 
[Exeunt Ketainers.) Fitz- 

urse 

Becket. Nay, let him be. 
Eleanor. No, no, my Lord Arch- 
bishop, 
'Tis known you are midwinter to s.\\ 

women, 
But often in your chancellorship you 

served 
The follies of the King. 

Becket. No, not these follies ! 

Eleanor. My lord, Fitzurse beheld 

her in your lodging. 
Becket. Whoin ? 
Eleanor Well — you know — the 

minion, Rosamund. 
Becket. He liad good ej'es ! 
Eleanor Then hidden in the street 
He watch'd her pass witli John of 

Salisbury 
And heard her cry " Where is this 
bower of mine 1 " 
Becket. Good ears too ! 
Eleanor. You are going to the 

Castle, 
Will you subscribe the customs ? 

Becket. I leave that, 

Knowing how much you reverence 

Holy Church, 
My liege, to your conjecture. 

Eleanor. I and mine — 

And many a baron holds along with 

me — 
Are not so much at feud witli Holy 

Church 
But we might take your side against 

the customs^ — 
So that you grant me one slight favor. 
Becket. What ? 

Eleanor. A sight of that same chart 
which Henry gave you 
With the red line — " her bower." 
Becket. And to what end 1 

Eleanor. That Church must scorn 
herself whose fearful Priest 
Sits winking at the license of a king, 
Altho' we grant when kings are dan- 
gerous 
The Church must play into the hands 

of kings ; 
Look ! I would move this wanton 

from his sight 
And take the Church's danger on 
myself. 
Becket. For which she should be 

duly grateful. 
Eleanor. True ! 

Tho' she that binds the bond, herself 

should see 
That kings are faithful to their mar- 
riage vow. 
Becket. Ay, Madam, and queens 

also. 
Eleanor. And queens also ! 

What is your drift ? 



Becket. My drift is to the Castle, 

Where I shall meet the Barons and 

my King. [_Exit. 

De Broc, De Tr.\cy, De Bkito, De 

MORVILLE (passing). 
Eleanor. To the Castled 
De Broc. Ay ! 

Eleanor. Stir up the King, the 

Lords ! 
Set all on fire against him ! 

De Brito. Ay, good Madam! 

\_Exeunt. 
Eleanor. Fool ! I will make thee 
hateful to thy King. 
Churl ! I will have thee frighted 

into France, 
And I shall live to trample on thy 
grave. 

SCENE IIL — The Hall in North- 
ampton Castle. 

On one side of the stage the doors of an 
inner Council-chamber , half-open. At 
the bottom, the great doors of the Hall. 
Roger Archbishop of York, Fo- 
LioT Bishop of London, Hilary 
OF Chichester, Bishop of Here- 
ford, Richard de Hastings 
(Grand Prior of Templars), Philip 
DE Eleemosyna ( The Pope's Al- 
moner), and others. De Broc, 
Fitzurse, De Bkito, De Mor- 
viLLE, De Tracy", and other 
Barons assembled — a table before 
them. John of Oxford, President 
of the Council. 

Enter Becket and Herbert of 

BOSHAM. 

Becket. Where is the King ? 
Roger of York. Gone hawking on 
the Nene, 

His heart so gall'd with thine ingrati- 
tude. 

He will not see thy face till thou hast 
sign'd 

These ancient laws and customs of 
the realm. 

Thy sending back the Great Seal 
niadden'd liim. 

He all but pluck'd the bearer's eyes 
away. 

Take heed, lest he destroy thee ut- 
terly. 
Becket. Then shalt thou step into 

my place and sign. 
Roger of York. Didst thou not 
promise Henry to obey 

These ancient laws and customs of 
the realm ? 
Becket. Saving the honor of my 
order — ay. 

Customs, traditions, — clouds that 
come and go ; 



632 



BECKET. 



The customs of the Churcli are Peter's 
rock. 
Eoger of York. Saving thine order ! 
But King Henry sware 

That, saving his King's kingship, he 
would grant thee 

The crown itself. Saving thine order, 
Thomas, 

Is black and white at once, and comes 
to nought. 

O bolster'd up with stubbornness and 
pride, 

Wilt thou destroy the Church in fight- 
ing for it. 

And bring us all to shame ? 

Becket. Eoger of York, 

When I and thou were j'ouths in 
Theobald's house. 

Twice did thy malice and thy calum- 
nies 

Exile me from the face of Theo- 
bald. 

Now I am Canterbury and thou art 
York. 
Roger of York. And is not York the 
peer of Canterbury ? 

Did not Great Gregory bid St. Austin 
here 

Found two archbishopricks, London 
and York ? 
Becket. What came of that ? The 
first archbishop fled. 

And York lay barren for a hundred 
years. 

Why, by this rule, Foliot may claim 
the pall 

For London too. 

Foliot. And with good reason too. 

For London had a temple and a 
priest 

When Canterbury hardly bore a name. 
Becket. The pagan temple of a pa- 
gan Rome ! 

The heathen priesthood of a heathen 
creed ! 

Thou goest beyond thyself in petu- 
lancy ! 

Who made thee London ? Who, but 
Canterbury ? 
John of O-vford. Peace, peace, my 
lords ! these customs are no 
longer 

As Canterbury calls them, wandering 
clouds. 

But by the King's command are writ- 
ten down, 

And by tiie King's command I, John 
of Oxford, 

The President of this Council, read 
them. 
Becket. Read ! 

Johii of Oxford (reads). "All 

causes of advowsons and presenta- 
tions, whether between laymen or 

clerics, shall be tried in the King's 

court." 



Becket. But that I cannot sign : for 
that would drag 
The cleric before the civil judgment- 
seat. 
And on a matter wholly spiritual. 

Jdlin of Oxford. " If any cleric be 
accused of felony, the Church sliall 
not protect him ; but he shall answer 
to tiie summons of the King's court 
to be tried therein." 

Becket. And that I cannot sign. 
Is not the Church the visible Lord on 

earth ? 
Shall hands that do create the Lord 
j be bound 

i Behind the back like laymen-crim- 
inals ? 
The Lord be judged again by Pilate ? 
No! 
John of Oxford. " When a bisli- 
oprick falls vacant, the King, till 
another be apjiointed, shall receive 
the revenues thereof." 

Becket. And that I cannot sign. Is 
the King's treasury 
A fit place for the monies of the 

Church, 
That be the patrimony of the poor? 
John of Oxford. " And when the 
vacancy is to be filled u}), the King 
shall summon the chapter of that 
church to court, and the election shall 
be made in the Chapel Royal, with 
tlie consent of our lord the King, and 
by the advice of his Government." 
Becket. And that I cannot sign : for 
that would make 
Our island-Church a schism from 

Christendom, 
And weight down all free choice be- 
neath the throne. 
Foliot. And was thine own election 
so canonical. 
Good father ? 

Becket. If it were not, Gilbert 
Foliot, 
I mean to cross the sea to France, and 

lay 
My crozier in the Holy Father's 

hands, 
And bid him re-create me, Gilbert 
Foliot. 
Foliot. Nay ; by another of these 
customs thou 
AYilt not be suffer'd so to cross the seas 
Without the license of our lord the 
King. 
Becket. That, too, I cannot sign. 

De Bkoc, De Brito, De Tracy, 
FiTZLRSE, De Morville, start up 
— a clash of swords. 

Sign and obey ! 

Becket. My lords, is this a combat 
or a council ! 



BECKET. 



632 



Are ye my masters, or my lord the 

King '>. 
Ye make this clashing for no love o' 

the customs 
Or constitutions, or wliate'er 3'e call 

them. 
But that there be among you those 

tJiat hold 
Lands reft from Canterbury. 

De Broc. And mean to keep them. 
In spite of thee ! 

Lords (shouting). Sign, and obey the 

crown ! 
Becket. The crown ? Shall I do less 

for Canterbury 
Than Henry for the crown ? King 

Stephen gave 
Many of the crown lands to those that 

helpt him ; 
So did Matilda, the King's mother. 

Mark, 
When Henry came into his own 

again, 
Then he took back not only Stciihen's 

gifts. 
But his own mother's, lest the crown 

should be 
Shorn of ancestral splendor. This 

did Henry. 
Shall I do less for mine own Canter- 
bury ■? 
And thou, De Broc, that boldest Salt- 
wood Castle 

De Broc. And mean to hold it, 

or 

Becket. To have my life. 

De Broc. The King is quick to 

anger ; if thou anger him, 
We wait but the King's word to strike 

thee dead. 
Becket. Strike, and I die the death 

of martyrdom ; 
Strike, and ye set these customs by 

my death 
Ringing their own death-knell thro' 

all the realm. 
Herbert. And I can tell you, lords, 

ye are all as like 
To lodge a fear in Thomas Becket's 

heart 
As find a hare's form in a lion's cave. 
Jo/in of O.rford. Ay, sheathe your 

swords, ye will displease the 

King. 
De Broc. Why down then thou ! 

but an he come to Saltwoud, 
By God's death, thou shalt stick him 

like a calf ! [Sheutliittf/ his sword. 
Hilar I/. O my good lord, I do en- 
treat thee — sign. 
S?ive the King's honor here before his 

barons. 
He hath sworn that thou shouldst 

sign, and now but shuns 
The semblance of defeat ; I have 

heard him say 



He means no more ; so if thou sign, 

my lord. 
That were but as the shadow of an 

assent. 
Becket. 'Twould seem too like the 

substance, if I sign'd. 
Philip de Eleemosyna. My lord, thine 

ear! I have the ear of the Pope. 
As thou hast honor for the Pope our 

master. 
Have pity on him, sorely prest upoi; 
By the fierce Emperor and his Anti- 

*pope. 
Thou knowest he was forced to fly to 

France ; 
He pray'd me to pray thee to pacify 
Thy King ; for if thou go against thy 

King, 
Then must he likewise go against thy 

King, 
And then thy King might join the 

Antipope, 
And that would shake the Papacy as 

it stands. 
Besides, thy King sAvore to our car- 
dinals 
He meant no harm nor damage to the 

Church. 
Smoothe thou his jiride — X\\\ signing 

is but form ; 
Nay, and should harm come of it, it 

is the Pope 
Will be to blame — not thou. Over 

and over 
He told me thou shouldst pacify the 

King, 
Lest there be battle between Heaven 

and Earth, 
And Earth should get the better — 

for the time. 
Cannot the Pope absolve thee if thou 

sign "? 
Becket. Have I the orders of the 

Holy Father ? 
Philip de Eleemosijna. Orders, my 

lord — why, no ; for what am I ? 
The secret whisjier of the Holy 

Father. 
Thou, that hast been a statesman, 

couldst thou always 
Blurt thy free mind to the air ? 

Becket. If Rome be feeble, then 

should I be firm. 
Philip. Take it not that way — 

balk not the Pope's will. 
When he hath shaken off the Em- 
peror, 
He heads the Church against the King 

with thee. 
Richard de Hastings {kneeling). 

Becket, I am the oldest of the 

Templars ; 
I knew thy father; he would be mine 



Had 



he lived now 
thy father ! 



think of me as 



634 



BECKET. 



Behold thy father kneeling to thee, 

Becket. 
Submit ; I promise thee on my salva- 
tion 
That thou wilt hear no more o' the 
customs. 
Becket. What ! 

Hath Henry told thee ? hast thou 
talk'd with him ? 
Another Templar (kneeling). Father, 
I am the youngest of the Tem- 
plars, 
Look on me as I were thy bodily son, 
For, like a son, I lift my hands to 
thee. 
Philip. Wilt thou hold out for ever, 
Thomas Becket ? 
Dost thou not hear ? 

Becket {signs). Why — there then 
— there — 1 sign. 
And swear to obey the customs. 

Foliot. Is it thy will. 

My lord Archbishop, that we too 
should sign 1 
Becket. () ay, by that canonical 
obedience 
Thou still hast owed thy father, Gil- 
bert Foliot. 
Foliot. Loyally and with good faith, 

my lord Archbishop ? 
Becket. O ay, with all that loyalty 
and good faith 
Thou still hast shown th}^ primate, 
Gilbert Foliot. 
[Becket draws apart with Herbert. 
Herbert, Herbert, have I betray'd the 

Church ? 
I'll have the paper back — blot out 
my name. 
Herbert. Too late, my lord : you see 

they are signing there. 
Becket. False to myself — it is the 
will of God 
To break me, prove me nothing of 

myself ! 
This Almoner hath tasted Henry's 

gold. 
The cardinals have finger'd Henry's 

gold. 
And Rome is venal ev'n to rottenness. 
I see it, I see it. 

I am no soldier, as he said — at least 
No leader. Herbert, till I hear from 

the Pope 
I will suspend myself from all my func- 
tions. 
If fast and prayer, the lacerating 

scourge 

Foliot (from the table). My lord 
Archbishop, thou hast yet to 
seal. 
Becket. First, Foliot, let me see 
what I have sign'd. 

[ Goes to the table. 
What, this ! and this ! — what ! new 
and old together ! 



Seal ? If a seraph shouted from the 

sun. 
And bade me seal against the rights of 

the Church, 
I would anathematize him. I will 

not seal. [Exit with Herbert. 

Enter King Henry. 

Henry. Where's Thomas ? hath he 

sign'd ? show me tlie papers ! 
Sign'd and not seal'd ! How's that t 

John of O.rfonl. He would not seal. 
And when he sign'd, his face was 

stormy-red — 
Shame, wrath, I know not what. He 

sat down there 
And dropt it in his hands, and then a 

paleness. 
Like the wan twilight after sunset, 

crept 
Up even to the tonsure, and he 

groan'd, 
" False to myself ! It is the will of 

God ! " 
Henri/. God's will be what it will, 

the man shall seal. 
Or I will seal his doom. My burgher's 

son — 
Nay, if I cannot break him as the 

prelate, 
I'll crush him as the subject. Send 

for him back. 

\_Sits on his throne. 
Barons and bishojis of our realm of 

England, 
After the nineteen winters of King 

Stephen — 
A reign which was no reign, when none 

could sit 
By his own hearth in peace ; when 

murder common 
As nature's death, like Egypt's plague, 

had fill'd 
All things with blood ; when every 

doorway blush'd, 
Dash'd red with that unhallow'd pass- 
over ; 
When every baron ground his blade 

in blood ; 
The household dough was kneaded up 

with blood ; 
The millwheel turn'd in blood; the 

wliolesome plow 
Lay rusting in the furrow's yellow 

weeds, 
Till famine dwarf t the race — I came, 

your King ! 
Nor dwelt alone, like a soft lord of 

the East, 
In mine own hall, and sucking thro' 

fools' ears 
The flatteries of corruption — went 

aliroad 
Thro' all my counties, spied my peo- 

l^le's ways ; 



BECKET. 



635 



Yea, heard the churl against the baron 
— yea, 

And did him justice ; sat in mine own 
courts 

Judging my judges, tliat liad found a 
King 

Who ranged confusions, made the 
twiliglit day, 

And struck a shape from out the 
vague, and law 

From madness. And the event — our 
fallows till'd, 

Much corn, repeopled towns, a realm 
again. 

So far my course, albeit not glassy- 
smooth, 

Had prosper'd in the main, but sud- 
denly 

Jarr'd on this rock. A cleric violated 

The daughter of his host, and mur- 
der'd him. 

Bishops — York, London, Chichester, 
Westminster — 

Ye haled this tonsured devil into your 
courts ; 

But since your canon will not let you 
take 

Life for a life, ye but degraded him 

Where I had hang'd him. What doth 
hard murder care 

For degradation ? and that made me 
muse. 

Being bounden by my coronation oath 

To do men justice. Look to it, your 
own selves ! 

Say that a cleric murder'd an arch- 
bishop, 

What could ye do ? Degrade, imprison 
him — 

Not death for death. 

John of Oxford. But I, my liege, 
could swear. 

To death for death. 

Henrji. And, looking thro' my reign, 

I found a hundred ghastly murders 
done 

By men, the scum and offal of the 
Church ; 

Then, glancing thro' the story of this 
realm, 

I came on certain wholesome usages, 

Lost in desuetude, of my grandsire's 
day. 

Good royal customs — had them writ- 
ten fair 

For John of Oxford here to read to 
you. 
John of Oxford. And I can easily 
swear to these as being 

The King's will and God's will and 
justice ; yet 

1 could but read a part to-day, be- 
cause 

Fitzurse. Because my lord of Can- 
terbury 

De True I). Ay, 



This lord of Canterbury 

De Brito. As is his wont 

Too much of late whene'er your royal 

rights 

Are mooted in our councils 

Fitzurse. — made an uproar. 

Henry. And Becket had my bosom 

on all this ; 
If ever man by bonds of grateful- 
ness — 
I raised him from the puddle of the 

gutter, 
I made him porcelain from the clay 

of the city — 
Thought that I knew him, err'd thro' 

love of him. 
Hoped, were he chosen archbishop. 

Church and (Jrown, 
Two sisters gliding in an equal 

dance. 
Two rivers gently flowing side by 

side — 
But no ! 
The bird that moults sings the same 

song again, 
The snake that sloughs comes out a 

fenake again. 
Snake — ay, but he that lookt a fang- 
less one, 
Issues a venomous adder. 
For he, when having dofft the Chan- 
cellor's robe — 
Flung the Great Seal of England in 

my face — 
Claim'd some of our crown lands for 

Canterbury — 
My comrade, boon companion, my co- 
reveller, 
The master of his master, the King's 

king. — 
God's eyes ! I had meant to make him 

all but king. 
Chancellor-Archbishop, he might well 

have sway'd 
All England under Henry, the young 

King, 
When I was hence. What did the 

traitor say ? 
False tohimself, but ten-fold false tome! 
The will of God — why, then it is my 

will — 
Is he coming ? 

MesseiKjer (enterincj). With a crowd 

of worshippers, 
And holds his cross before him thro' 

the crowd. 
As one that puts himself in sanctuary. 
Henry. His cross ! 
Boger of York. His cross ! I'll front 

him, cross to cross. 

[Exit Roger of York. 
Henry. His cross ! it is the traitor 

that imputes 
Treachery to his King ! 
It is not safe for me to look upon 

him. 



636 



BECKET. 



Away — with me ! 

\_Goes in ivith his Barons to the 
Council Chamber, the door of 
which is left open. 

Enter Becket, hoi ding his cross of silver 
before him. The Bishops come round 
him. 

Hereford. The King will not abide 
thee with thy cross. 
Permit me, my good lord, to bear it 

for thee, 
Being tliy chaplain. 

Becket. No : it must protect me. 
Herbert. As once he bore the stand- 
ard of the Angles, 
So now he bears the standard of the 
angels. 
Foliot. I am the Dean of the prov- 
ince : let me bear it. 
Make not thy King a traitorous mur- 
derer. 
Becket. Did not your barons draw 
their swords against me ? 

Enter Roger of York, with his cross, 
advancing to Becket. 

Becket. Wherefore dost thou pre- 
sume to bear thy cross, 

Against the solemn ordinance from 
Rome, 

Out of thy province 1 

Roger of York. Why dost thou pre- 
sume, 

Arm'd witli thy cross, to come before 
the King ? 

If Canterbury bring his cross to court, 

Let York bear his to mate with Can- 
terbury. 
Foliot {seizing hold ofBecket's cross). 
Nay, nay, my lord, thou must 
not brave the King. 

Nay, let me have it. I will have it! 
Becket. Away ! \_F tinging him off. 
Foliot. He fasts, they say, this mi- 
tred Hercules ! 

He fast ! is that an arm of fast ? My 
lord, 

Hadst thou not sign'd, I had gone 
along with thee ; 

But thou tlie shepherd hast betray'd 
the sheep. 

And thou art perjured, and thou wilt 
not seal. 

As Chancellor thou wast against the 
Church, 

Now as Archbishop goest against the 
King ; 

For, like a fool, thou knowst no mid- 
dle way. 

Ay, ay ! but art thou stronger tlian 
the King ? 
Becket. Strong — not in mine own 
self, but Heaven ; true 



To either function, holding it ; and 

thou 
Fast, scourge thyself, and mortify thy 

flesh. 
Not sjiirit — thou remainest Gilbert 

Foliot, 
A worldly follower of the worldly 

strong. 
I, bearing this great ensign, make it 

clear 
Under what Prince I fight. 

Foliot. My lord of York, 

Let us go in to the Council, where our 

bishops 
And our great lords will sit in judg- 
ment on him. 
Becket. Sons sit in judgment on 

their father ! — then 
The spire of the Holy Church may 

prick the graves — 
Her crypt among the stars. Sign ? 

seal 1 I promised 
The King to obey these customs, not 

yet written, 
Saving mine order ; true too, that 

when written 
I sign'd them — being a fool, as Foliot 

call'd me. 
I hold not by my signing. Get ye 

hence, 
Tell what I say to the King. 

\_ExeuntYlercf or A,Yo\\oX.,and other 

Bishops. 
Boger of York. The Church 

will hate thee. [E.vit. 

Becket. Serve my best friend and 

make him my worst foe ; 
Fight for the Church, and set the 

Church against me ! 
Herbert. To be honest is to set all 

knaves against thee. 
Ah ! Thomas, excommunicate them 

all! 
Hereford (re-entering). I cannot 

brook the turmoil thou hast 

raised. 
I would, my lord Thomas of Canter- 
bury, 
Thouwert plain Thomas and not Can- 
terbury, 
Or that thou wouldst deliver Canter- 
bury 
To our King's hands again, and be at 

peace. 
Hilarg (re-entering). For hath not 

thine ambition set the Churcii 
Tliis day between the hammer and 

the anvil — 
Fealty to the King, obedience to thy- 
self ?' 
Herbert. What say the bishops ? 
Hilary. Some have pleaded for him, 
But the King rages — most are with 

the King ; 
And some are reeds, that one time 

sway to the current, 



BECKET. 



637 



And to the wind another. But we hold 
Thou art forsworn ; and no forsworn 

Archbishop 
Shall helm the Church. We therefore 

l)lace ourselves 
Under the shield and safeguard of the 

Pope, 
And cite tiiee to appear before the 

Poi^e, 
And answer thine accusers. . . . Art 
thou deaf "? 
Becket. I hear you. [Clash of arms. 
Hilanj. Dost thou hear 

those others ? 
Becket. Ay ! 

Roger of York {re-entering). The 
King's " God's eyes ! " come now 
so thick and fast, 
"We fear that he may reave thee of 

thine own. 
Come on, come on ! it is not fit for us 
To see the proud Archbishop muti- 
lated. 
Say that he blind thee and tear out 
thy tongue. 
Becket. So be it. He begins at top 
with me ; 
They crucified St. Peter downward. 

Roger of York. Nay, 

But for tiieir sake wlio stagger betwixt 

thine 
Appeal, and Henry's anger, yield. 
Becket. Hence, Satan ! 

[Exit Roger of York. 
Fitzurse {re-entering). My lord, the 
King demands three hundred 
marks. 
Due from his castles of Berkham- 

stead and Eye 
When thou thereof wast warden. 

Becket. Tell the King 

I spent thrice that in fortifying his 
castles. 
De Trucfi (r-e-entering). My lord, 
the King demands seven hun- 
dred marks, 
Lent at the siege of Thoulouse by the 
King. 
Becket. I led seven hundred knights 

and fought his wars. 
De Brito (re-entering). My lord, the 
King demands five hundred 
marks. 
Advanced thee at his instance by the 

Jews, 
For which the King was bound secu- 
rity. 
Becket. I thought it was a gift ; I 
thought it was a gift. 

Enter Lord Leicester (followed by 

Barons and Bishops). 

Lord Leicester. My lord, I come 

unwillingly. The King 

Demands a strict account of all those 

revenues 



From all the vacant sees and abbacies, 
Which came into thy hands when 

Chancellor. 
Becket. How much might that 

amount to, my lord Leicester 1 
Leicester. Some thirty — forty thou- 
sand silver marks. 
Becket. Are these your customs ■? O 

my good lord Leicester, 
The King and I were brothers. All I 

had 
I lavish'd for the glory of the 

King ; 
I shone from him, for him, his glory, 

his 
Reflection : now the glory of the 

Church 
Hath swallow'd up the glory of the 

King ; 
I am his no more, but hers. Grant 

me one day 
To ponder these demands. 

Leicester. Hear first thy sentence ! 

The King and all his lords 

Becket. Son, first hear me ! 

Leicester. Nay, nay, canst thou, that 

boldest thine estates 
In fee and barony of the King, decline 
The judgment of the King ? 

Becket. Tlie King ! I hold 

Nothing in fee and barony of the 

King. 
Whatever the Church owns — she 

holds it in 
Free and perpetual alms, unsubject to 
One earthly sceptre. 

Leicester. Nay, but hear 

thy judgment. 

The King and all his barons 

Becket. Judgment ! Barons ! 

Who but the bridegroom dares to 

judge the bride. 
Or he the bridegroom may appoint ? 

Not he 
That is not of the house, but from the 

street 
Stain'd with the mire thereof. 

I had been so true 
To Henry and mine office that the 

King 
Would throne me in the great Arch- 

bishoprick : 
And I, that knew mine own infirmity, 
For the King's pleasure rather than 

God's cause 
Took it upon me — err'd thro' love of 

him. 
Now therefore God from me withdraws 

Himself, 
And the King too. 

What ! forty thousand marks ! 
Why thou, the King, the Pope, the 

Saints, the world, 
Know that when made Archbishop I 

was freed, 
Before the Prince and chief Justiciary, 



63S 



BECKET. 



From every bond and debt and obli- 
gation 
Incurr'd as Chancellor. 

Hear me, son. 

As gold 
Outvalues dross, light darkness, Abel 

Cain, 
The soul the body, and the Church 

the Throne, 
I charge thee, upon pain of mine 

anathema, 
That thou obey, not me, but God in 

me, 
Rather than Henry. I refuse to stand 
By the King's censure, make my cry 

to the Pope, 
By whom I will be judged ; refer my- 
self, 
The King, these customs, all the 

Church, to him, 
And under his authoritj- — I depart. 

[ Going. 
[Leicester looks at him doubtingly. 
Am I a prisoner ? 

Leicester. By St. Lazarus, no! 

I am confounded by thee. Go in 
peace. 
De Broc. In peace now — but after. 
Take that for earnest. 

\_Flings a bone at him from the rushes. 

De Brito, Fitzurse, De Tracy and 

others {flinging wisps of rushes). 

Ay, go in peace, caitiff, caitiff ! And 
that too, perjured prelate — and that, 
turncoat shaveling ! There, there, 
there ! traitor, traitor, traitor ! 
Becket. Mannerless wolves ! 

\_T liming and facing them. 

Herbert. Enough, my lord, enough ! 

Becket. Barons of England and of 

Normandy, 

When what ye shake at doth but 

seem to fly. 
True test of coward, ye follow with 

a yell. 
But I that threw the mightiest knight 
of France, 

Sir Engelram de Trie, 

Herbert. Enough, my lord. 

Becket. More than enough. I play 
the fool again. 

Enter Herald. 

Herald. The King commands you, 

upon pain of death. 
That none should wrong or injure 

your Archbishop. 
Foliot. Deal gently with the young 

man Absalom. 
[Great doors of the Hall at the back 

open, and discoi^er a crowd. 
They shout : Blessed is he that 

Cometh in the name of the 

Lord ! 



SCENE IV. — Refectory of the 
Monastery at Northampton. A 
Banquet on the Tables. 

Enter Becket. Becket's Ret-jIiners. 

First Retainer. Do thou speak first. 

Second Retainer. Nay, thou! Nay, 
thou ! Hast not thou drawn the short 
straw ? 

First Retainer. My lord Archbishop, 
wilt thou permit us 

Becket. To speak without stammer- 
ing and like a free man ? • Ay. 

First Retainer. My lord, permit us 
then to leave thy service. 

Becket. When 1 

First Retainer. Now. 

Becket. To-niglit ? 

First Retainer. To-night, my lord. 

Becket. And why ? 

First Retainer. My lord, we leave 
thee not without tears. 

Becket. Tears 1 Why not stay with 
me then "? 

First Retainer. My lord, we cannot 
yield thee an answer altogether to thy 
satisfaction. 

Becket. I warrant you, or your 
own either. Shall I find you one 1 
The King hath frowned upon me. 

First Retainer. That is not altogether 
our answer, my lord. 

Becket. No; yet all but all. Go, 
go ! Ye have eaten of my dish and 
drunken of my cup for a dozen years. 

First Retainer. And so we have. 
We mean thee no wrong. Wilt thou 
not say, " God bless you," ere we go ? 

Becket. God bless you all ! God 
redden your pale blood ! But mine is 
human-red ; and when ye shall hear it 
is poured out upon earth, and see it 
mounting to Heaven, may God bless 
you, that seems sweet to you now, will 
blast and blind you like a curse. 

First Retainer. We hope not, my 
lord. Our humblest thanks for your 
blessing. Farewell ! 

[Exeunt Retainers. 

Becket. Farewell, friends ! fare- 
well, swallows ! I wrong the bird ; 
she leaves only the nest she built, they 
leave the builder. Why f Am I to 
be murdered to-night ? 

[Knocking at the door. 

Attendant. Here is a missiA'e left at 
the gate by one from the castle. 

Becket. Cornwall's hand or Leices- 
ter's : they write marvellouslj' alike. 
[Reading. 

" Fly at once to France, to King 
Louis of France : there be those about 
our King who would have thj'' blood." 
Was not my lord of Leicester bid- 
den to our supper ? 



BECKET. 



639 



Attendant. Ay, my lord, and divers 
other earls and barons. But the hour 
is past, and our brother. Master Cook, 
he makes moan that all be a-getting 
cold. 

Becket. And I make my moan along 
with him. Cold after warm, winter 
after summer, and the golden leaves, 
these earls and barons, that clung to 
me, frosted off me b}' the first cold 
frown of the King. Cold, but look 
how the table steams, like a heathen 
altar ; nay, like the altar at Jerusalem. 
Shall God's good gifts be wasted? 
None of them here ! Call in the poor 
from the streets, and let them feast. 

Herbert. That is the paral>le of our 
blessed Lord. 

Becket. And why should not the 
pai'able of our blessed Lord be acted 
again 1 Call in the poor ! Tl:e Church 
is ever at variance with the kings, and 
ever at one with the poor. I marked 
a group of lazars in the market-place 
— half-rag, half-sore — beggars, poor 
rogues (Heaven bless 'em) who never 
saw or dreamed of such a banquet. I 
will amaze them. Call them in, I say. 
They shall henceforward be my earls 
and barons — our lords and masters 
in Christ Jesus. [Exit Herbert. 

If the King hold his purpose, I am 
m_yself a beggar. Forty thousand 
marks ! forty thousand devils — and 
these craven bishops ! 

^•1 Poor j]fan {enter inr/) irith liis dog. 
My lord Archbishop, may I come in 
with my poor friend, my dog ? The 
King's verdurer caught him a-himt- 
ing in the forest, and cut off his paws. 
The dog followed his calling, my lord. 
I ha' carried him ever so many miles 
in my arms, and he licks my face and 
moans and cries out against the King. 

Becket. Better thy dog than thee. 
The King's courts would use thee 
worse than thy dog — tlicy are too 
bloody. Were the Church king, it 
would be otherwise. Poor beast ! 
poor beast ! set him down. I will biijd 
up his wounds with my napkin. Give 
him a bone, give him a bone ! Who 
misuses a dog would misuse a child — 
they cannot speak for themselves. 
Past help ! his paws are past help. 
God help him ! 

Enter the Beggars {and seat themselves 

at the Tables). Becket and Herbert 

icait upon them. 

First Beggar. Swine, sheep, ox — 
here's a French supper. When thieves 
fall out, honest men 

Second Beggar. Is the Archbishop 
a thief who gives thee thy supper ? 

Eirst Beggar. Well, then, how does 



it go ? When honest men fall out, 
thieves — no, it can't be that. 

Second Beggar. Who stole the 
widow's one sitting hen o' Sunday, 
when she was at mass ? 

Eirst Beggar. Come, come ! thou 
hadst tin' sliare on her. Sitting hen! 
Our Lord Becket's our great sitting- 
hen cock, and we shouldn't ha' been 
sitting here if the barons and bishops 
hadn't been a-sitting on the Arch- 
bishop. 

Becket. Ay, the princes sat in judg- 
ment against me, and the Lord hath 
prepared your table — Sederunt prin- 
cipes, ederunt pauperes. 

A Voice. Becket, beware of the 
knife ! 

Becket. Who spoke ? 

Third Beggar. Nobody, m}- lord. 
What's that, my lord ? 

Becket. Venison. 

Third Beggar. Yenison ? 

Becket. Buck ; deer, as j'ou call it. 

Third Beggar. King's meat ! By 
the Lord, won't we pray for your lord- 
ship ! 

Becket. And, my children, your 
prayers will do more for me in the day 
of peril that dawns darkly and drear- 
ily over the liouse of God — j'ea, and 
in the day of judgment also, than the 
swords of the craven sycophants would 
have done had they remained true to 
me whose bread they have partaken. 
I must leave you to your banquet. 
Feed, feast, and be merry. Herbert, 
for the sake of the Church itself, if 
not for my own, I must tiy to France 
to-night. Come witli me. 

[Exit icith Herbert. 

Third Beggar. Here — all of you — 
my lord's health {they drink). Well 
— if that isn't goodly wine 

First Beggar. Then there isn't a 
goodly wench to serve him with it : 
they were fighting for her to-day in 
the street. 

Third Beggar. Peace ! 

First Beggar. The black sheep baaed 
to the miller's ewe-lamb. 
The miller's away for to-night. 

Black sheep, quoth she, too black a 
sin for me. 
And what said the black sheep, my 
masters ? 
We can make a black sin white. 

Third Beggar. Peace ! 

First Beggar. " Ewe lamb, ewe 
lamb, I am here by the dam." 
But the miller came home that 
night. 

And so dusted his back with the 
meal in his sack. 
That he made the black sheep 
white. 



640 



BECKET. 



Third Be(jgay. Be we not of the 
family ? be we not a-supping with the 
head of the family ? be we not in my 
lord's own refractory ? Out from 
among us ; thou art our black sheep. 

Enter the four Knights. 

Fitzurse. Sheep, said he ? And 
sheep without the shepherd, too. 
Where is my lord Archbisl'op ? Thou 
the lustiest and lousiest of this Cain's 
brotherhood, answer. 

Third Beiji/ar. With Cain's answer, 
my lord. xVm I his keeper ? Thou 
shouldst call him Cain, not me. 

Fitzurse. So I do, for he would 
murder his brother the State. 

Third Be;/r/ur (risiiu/ and advanciiu/). 
No, my lord ; but because the Lord 
hath set his mark upon him that no 
man should murder him. 

Fitzurse. Where is he ■? where is he ? 

Third Bc(/tjar. With Cain belike, in 
the land of Nod, or in the land of 
France for aught I know. 

Fitzurse: France ! Ha ! De Mor- 
ville, Tracy, Brito — fled is he ? Cross 
swords all of you ! swear to follow 
him ! Eemember the Queen ! 

\_Thefour Knights cross their swords. 

De Brito. They mock us ; he is here. 
\_All the Beggars rise and advance 
upon them. 

Fitzurse. Come, you filthy knaves, 
let us pass. 

Third Beg/jar. N.ay, my lord, let us 
pass. We be a-going home after our 
supper in all humbleness, my lord ; for 
the Archbishop loves humbleness, my 
lord ; and though we be fifty to four, 
we daren't fight 3'ou with our crutches, 
my lord. There now, if thou hast not 
laid hands upon me ! and my fellows 
know that I am all one scale like a 
fish. 1 pray God I haven't given thee 
my leprosy, my lord. 

[Fitzurse shrinks from him and an- 
other presses upon De Brito. 

De Brito. Away, dog ! 

Fourth Be(/(/(ir. And I was bit by a 
mad dog o' Friday, an' I be half dog 
alread}'^ by this token, that tho' I can 
drink wine I cannot bide water, my 
lord ; and I want to bite, I want to bite, 
and they do saj- the very breath catches. 

De Brito. Insolent clown. Shall I 
smite him with the edge of the sword ? 

De Morville. No, nor with the flat 
of it either. Smite the shepherd and 
the sheep are scattered. Smite the 
sheep and the shepherd will excom- 
municate thee. 

De Brito. Yet my fingers itcli to 
beat him into nothing. 

Fifth Be(j;/iir. So do mine, my lord. 
I was born with it, and suljjhur won't 



bring it out o' me. But for all that 
the Archbishop washed my feet o' 
Tuesday. He likes it, my lord. 

Sixth Ber/r/ar. And see here, my 
lord, this rag fro' the gangrene i' my 
leg. It's humbling — it smells o' hu- 
man natur'. Wilt thou smell it, my 
lord ? for the Archbishop likes the 
smell on it, my lord ; for I be liis 
lord and master i' Christ, my lord. 

De Morville. Faugh ! we shall all be 
poisoned. Let us go. 

[ Theij draw back, Beggars following. 

Seventh Beggar. My lord, I ha' three 
sisters a-dying at home o' tlie sweat- 
ing sickness. They be dead while I be 
a-supping. 

Eighth Beggar. And I ha' nine dar- 
ters i' the spital that be dead ten times 
o'er i' one day wi' the putrid fever ; 
and I bring the taint on it along wi' 
me, for the Archbishop likes it, my 
lord. 

[Pressing upon the Knights //'// theg 
disappear thro' the door. 

Third Beggar. Crutches, and itches, 
and leprosies, and ulcers, and gan- 
grenes, and running sores, jjr.aise ye 
the Lord, for to-night ye have saved 
our Archbishop ! 

First Beggar. I'll go back again. I 
hain't half done yet. 

Herbert of Bosham (enterinq). My 
friends, the Archbishop bids you good- 
night. He hath retired to rest, and 
being in great jeopardy of his life, he 
hath made his bed between the altars, 
from whence he sends me to bid you 
this night pray for him who hath fed 
you in the wilderness. 

Third Beggar. So we will — so we 
will, I warrant thee. Becket shall be 
king and the Holy Father shall be 
king, and the world shall live by the 
King's venison and the bread o' the 
Lord, and there shall be no more poor 
for ever. Hurrah ! Vive le roy ! 
That's the English of it. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. — Rosamund's Bower. 
A Garden of Flowers. In the 

MIDST A BANK OF WILD-FLOWEKS 
WITH A BENCH BEFORE IT. 

Voices heard singing among the trees. 

DUET. 

1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I 

hear in the pine overhead ? 

2. No ; but the voice of the deep as it 

hollows the cliffs of the land. 
1. Is there a voice coming up with 
the voice of the deep from tho 
strand. 



BECKET. 



641 



One coming up with a song in the 
flusli of the glimmering red ? 
2. Love that is born of the deep com- 
ing up with the sun from the sea. 

1. Love that can shape or can sliatter 

a life till the life shall have fled ? 

2. Nay, let us welcome him, Love 

that can lift up a life from the 
dead. 

1. Keep him away from the lone little 

isle. Let us be, let us be. 

2. Nay, let him make it his own, let 

him reign in it — he, it is he. 
Love that is born of the deep com- 
ing up with the sun from the 
sea. 

Elder Henky and Eosamuxd. 

Rosamund. Be friends with him 

again — I do beseech thee. 
Henrij. With Becket % I have but 

one hour with thee — 
Sceptre and crozier clashing, and the 

mitre 
Grappling the crown — and when I 

flee from this 
For a gasp of freer air, a breathing- 
while 
To rest upon thy bosom and forget 

him — 
Why thou, my bird, thou pipest 

Becket, Becket — 
Yea, thou my golden dream of Love's 

own bower. 
Must be the nightmare breaking on 

my peace 
With " Becket." 

Rosamund. my life's life, not to 

smile 
Is all but death to me. My sun, no 

cloud ! 
Let there not be one frown in tliis one 

liour. 
Out of the many thine, let this be 

mine ! 
Look rather thou all-royal as when 

first 
1 met thee. 

Henry. Where was that ? 
Rosamund. Forgetting that 

Forgets me too. 

Henri/. Nay, I remember it well. 
There on the moors. 

Rosamund. And in a narrow patli. 
A plover flew before thee. Then I saw 
Thy high black steed among the flam- 
ing furze, 
Like sudden night in the main glare 

of day. 
And from that height something was 

said to me 
I knew not what. 

Henri/. I ask'd the way. 
Rosamund. I think so. 

So I lost mine. 



Henri/. Thou wast too shamed to 

answer. 
Rosamund. Too scared — so young ! 
Henry. The rosebud of my rose ! — 
Well, well, no more of him — I have 

sent his folk, 
His kin, all his belongings, overseas ; 
Age, orphans, and babe-breasting 

motJiers — all 
By hundreds to him — there to beg, 

starve, die — 
So that the fool King Louis feed them 

not. 
The man shall feel that I can strike 
him yet. 
Rosamund. Babes, orphans, moth- 
ers ! is that royal. Sire '. 
Henri/. And I have been as royal 
with the Church. 
He shelter'd in the Abbey of Pon- 

tigny. 
There wore his time studying the 

canon law 
To work it against me. But since he 

cursed 
My friends at Veselaj% I liave let 

them know, 
That if they keep liim longer as their 

guest, 
I scatter all their cowls to all the 
hells. 
Rosamund. And is that altogether 

royal ? 
Henry. Traitress ! 
Rosamund. A faithful traitress to 

thy royal fame. 
Henry. Fame ! what care I for 
fame ? Spite, ignorance, envy. 
Yea, honesty too, paint her what way 

they will. 
Fame of to-day is infamy to-morrow ; 
Infamy of to-day is fame to-morrow ; 
And round and round again. What 

matters ^ Royal — 
I mean to leave the royalty of my 

crown 
Unlessen'd to mine heirs. 

Rosamund. Still — thy fame too : 
I say that should be royal. 

Henry. And I say, 

I care not for thy saying. 

Rosamund. And I say, 

I care not for thy saying. A greater 

King 
Than thou art, Love, who cares not 

for the word, 
Makes " care not " — care. There 
have I spoken true ? 
Henry. Care dwell with me forever, 
when I cease 
To care for thee as ever ! 

Rosamund. Xo need ! no need ! . . . 
There is a bench. Come, wilt thou 

sit ? ... My bank 
Of wild-flowers. \_He slls.^ At thy feet ! 
[.57(6 sits at Ids feet. 



642 



BECKET, 



Henry. I bade them clear 

A royal pleasaunce for thee, in the 

wood, 
Not leave these countryfolk at court. 
Rosamund. I brought them 

In from the wood, and set them here. 

I love them 
More than the garden flowers, that 

seem at most 
Sweet guests, or foreign cousins, not 

half speaking 
The language of the land. I love 

thim too. 
Yes. But, my liege, lam sure, of all 

the roses — 
Shame fall on those who gave it a 

dog's name — 
This wild one {picking a hriar-rose) — 

nay, I shall not prick myself — 
Is sweetest. Do but smell ! 

Henry. Thou rose of the world ! 
3?hou rose of all the roses ! 

[Muttering. 
I am not worthy of her — this beast- 

'body 
That God has plunged my soul in — I, 

that taking 
The Fiend's advantage of a throne, so 

long 
Have wander'd among women, — a 

foul stream 
Thro' fever-breeding levels, — at her 

side. 
Among tiiese happy dales, run clearer, 

drop 
The mud I carried, like yon brook, and 

glass 
The faithful face of heaven — 
[Looking at her and unconsciously cdoud. 
— Thine ! thine ! 
Rosamund. I know it. 

Henry {muttering). Not hers. We 

have but one bond, her hate of 

Becket. 
Rosamund {half hearing). Nay! nay! 

what art thou muttering ? / 

hate Becket ? 
Henry {muttering). A sane and 

natural loathing for a soul 
Purer, and truer and nobler than her- 
self; 
And mine a bitterer illegitimate 

hate, 
A bastard hate born of a former 

love. 
Rosamund. My fault to name him! 

let the hand of one 
To whom thy voice is all her music, 

stay it 
But for a breath. 

[Puts her hand before his lijjs. 

Speak only of thy love. 
Why there — like some loud beggar 

at thj- gate — 
The happy boldness of this hand hath 

won it 



Love's alms, thy kiss {looking at her 

hand) — Sacred ! I'll kiss it 

too. [Kissing it. 

There ! Avherefore dost thou so peruse 

it ? Nay, 
There may be crosses in my line of 
life. 
Henry. Not half her hand — no hand 
to mate with her, 
If it should come to that. 

Rosamund. With her? with whom ? 
Henry. Life on the hand is naked 
gipsy-stuff ; 
Life on the face, the brows — clear 

innocence ! 
Vein'd marble — not a furrow j-et — 
and hers [^Juttering. 

Crost and recrost, a venomous spider's 

web 

Rosamund (springing up). Out of the 
cloud, my Sun — out of the 
eclii^se 
Narrowing my golden hour! 

Henry. () Rosamund, 

I would be true — would tell thee all 

— and something 
I had to saj' — I love thee none the 

less — 
Which will so vex thee. 

Rosamund. Something against me? 
Henry. No, no, against myself. 
Rosamund. I will not hear it. 
Come, come, mine hour ! I bargain 

for mine hour. 
I'll call thee little Geoffrey. 

Henry. Call him ! 

Rosamund. Geoffrey! 

Enter Geoffrey. 

Henry. How the boy grows ! 

Rosamund . Ay, and his brows are 
thine ; 
The mouth is only Clifford, my dear 
father. 

Geoffrey. My liege, what hast thou 
brought me ? 

Henry. Venal imp ! 

What say'st thou to the Chancellor- 
ship of England ? 

Geoffrey. yes, my liege. 

Henry. " O yes, my liege ! " He 
speaks 
As if it were a cake of gingerbread. 

Dost thou know, my boy, what it is 
to be Chancellor of England ? 

Geoffrey. Something good, or thou 
wouldst not give it me. 

Henry. It is, my boy, to side with 
the King when Chancellor, and then 
to be made Archbishop and go against 
the King who made him, and turn the 
world upside down. 

Geoffrey. I won't have it then. 
Naj', but give it me, and I promise 
thee not to turn the world upside down. 



BECKET. 



643 



Henry {(jiving him a ball). Here is 
a ball, my boy, thy world, to turn 
anyway and play with as thou wilt — 
which is more than I can do with 
mine. Go try it, play. \_Exit Geoffrey. 
A pretty lusty boy. 
Bosamund. So lik^to thee ; 

Like to be liker. 

Heuf!/. Not in my chin, I hope ! 

That tlireatens double. 

Bosdinund. Thou art manlike per- 
fect, 
Henri/. Ay, ay, no doubt ; and were 
1 humpt behind, 
Thou'd say as much — the goodly 

way of women 
Who love, for which I love them. 

May God grant 
No ill befall or him or thee when I 
Am gone. 

Rosamund. Is he thy enemy ? 
Henri/. He ? who ? ay ! 

Rosamund. Thine enemy knows the 

secret of my bower. 
Henri/. And I could tear him 
asunder with wild horses 
Before he would betray it. Nay — 

no fear ! 
More like is he to excommunicate 
me. 
Rosamund. And I would creep, 
crawl over knife-edge tlint 
Barefoot, a hundred leagues, to stay 

his hand 
Before he flash 'd the bolt. 

Henry. And when he flash'd it 

Shrink from me, like a daughter of 
the Church. 
Rosamund. Ay, but he will not. 
Henry. Ay ! but if he did ? 

Rosamund. then! O then! I 
almost fear to say 
That my poor heretic heart would 

excommunicate 
His excommunication, clinging to thee 
Closer than ever. 

Henry {raising Rosamund and kiss- 
ing her). My. brave-hearted 
Rose ! 
Hath he ever been to see thee ? 

Rosamund. Here ? not he. 

And it is so lonely here — no con- 
fessor. 
Henry. Thou shalt confess all thy 

sweet sins to me. 
Rosamund. Besides, Ave came away 
in such a heat, 
I brought not ev'n my crucifix. 

Henry. Take this. 

\_Giving her the Crucijix ichich 
Eleanor gave him. 
Rosamund. O beautiful! May I 
have it as mine, till mine 
Be mine again ? 

Henry (throwing it round her neck). 
Thine — as I am — till death ! 



Rosamund. Death 7 no ! I'll have 
it with me in my shroud. 
And wake with it, and show it to all 
the Saints. 
Henry. Nay — I must go ; but when 
thou layest Wiy lip 
To this, remembering One who died 

for thee, 
Remember also one who lives for thee 
Out there in France ; for 1 must hence 

to brave 
The Pope, King Louis, and this turbu- 
lent priest. 
Rosamund {kneeling). bj' thy love 
for me, all mine for thee. 
Fling not thy soul into the flames of 

hell : 
I kneel to thee — be friends with him 
again. 
Henry. Look, look ! if little Geof- 
frey have not tost 
His ball into the brook ! makes after 

it too 
To find it. Why, the child will drown 
himself. 
Rosamund. Geoffrey! Geoffrey! 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE IL — MoNTMiRAiL. " The 
Meetixg of the Kings." John 
OF Oxford and Henry. Croavd 

IN THE distance. 

John of Oxford. You have not 

crown'd young Henry yet, my 

liege ? 

Henry. CroAvn'd! hy God's eyes, 

we will not have him crown'd. 

I spoke of late to the boy, he an- 

swer'd me. 
As if he wore the crown alreadv — 

No* 
We will not have him crown'd. 
'Tis true what Becket told me, that 

the mother 
Would make him play his kingship 
against mine. 
John of Oxford. Not have him 

crown'd ? 
Henry. Not now — not yet ! and 
Becket — 
Becket should crown him were he 

crown'd at all : 
But, since we would be lord of our 

own manor. 
This Canterbur}', like a wounded deer, 
Has fied our presence and our feeding- 
grounds. 
John of Oxford. Cannot a smooth 
tongue lick him whole again 
To serve your will ? 

Henry. He hates my will, not me. 
.Tohn of Oxford. There's York, my 

liege. 
Henri/. But England scarce would 
hold 



644 



BECKET. 



Young Henry king, if only crown'd 
by Yoi'k, 

And that would stilt up York to twice 
himself. 

There is a movement yonder in the 
crowd — 

See if our pious — what shall I call 
him, Jolin ? — 

Husband-in-law, our smooth-shorn 
suzerain, 

Be yet within the field. 

John of Oxford. I will. \_E.rit. 

Henry. Ay ! ^^y ! 

Mince and go back ! his politic Holi- 
ness 

Hath all but climb'd the Eoman perch 
again, 

And we shall hear him presently with 
clapt wing 

Crow over Barbarossa — at last 
tongue-free 

To blast my realms with excommuni- 
cation 

And interdict. I must patch up a 
peace — 

A piece in this long-tugged at, thread- 
bare worn 

Quarrel of Crown and Church — to 
rend again. 

His Holiness cannot steer straight 
thro' shoals. 

Nor I. The citizen's heir hath con- 
quer'd me 

For the moment. So we make our 
peace with him. 

Enter Louis. 
Brother of France, what shall be done 

with Becket ? 
Louis. The holy Thomas ! Brother, 

you have traflSck'd 
Between the Eniiieror and the Pope, 

between 
The Pope and Antipope — a perilous 

game 
For men to play with God. 

Henri/. Ay, ?^y, good brother, 

They call you the Monk-King. 

Louis. Who calls me ? she 

That was my wife, now yours ? You 

have her Duchy, 
The point you aim'd at, and pray 

God she prove 
TB«e wife to you. You have had the 

better of us 
In secular matters. 

Henri/. Come, confess, goodbrother. 
You did your best or worst to keep 

her Duchy. 
Only the golden Leopard printed in it 
Such hold-fast claws that you per- 
force again 
Shrank into France. Tut, tut! did 

we convene 
This conference but to babble of our 

wives ? 



They are plagues enough in-door. 
Louis. We fought in the East, 
And felt the sun of Antioch scald our 

mail, 
And push'd our lances into Saracen 

hearts. 
We neVer hounded on the State at 

home 
To spoil the Church. 

Henry. How should you see this 

rightly ? 
Louis. Well, well, no more ! I am 

proud of my " Monk-King," 
Whoever named me; and, brother. 

Holy Church 
May rock, but will not wreck, nor our 

Archbishop 
Stagger on the slope decks for any 

rough sea 
Blown by the breath of kings. We 

do forgive you 
For aught you wrought against us. 

[Henry IioUls up his hand. 

Nay, I pray you, 

Do not defend yourself. You will do 

much 
To rake out old dying heats, if 

you, 
At my requesting, will but look into 
The wrongs you did him, and restore 

his kin, 
Keseat him on his throne of Canter- 
bury, 
Be, both, the friends you were. 

Henry. The friends we were ! 

Co-mates we were, and had our sport 

together, 
Co-kings we were, and made the laws 

together. 
The world had never seen the like 

before. 
You are too cold to know the fashion 

of it. 
Well, well, we will be gentle with 

him, gracious — 
Most gracious. 

Enter Becket, ajfler him, John of 
Oxford, Eoger of York, Gil- 
bert FoLiOT, De Broc, Fitzurse, 

etc. 

Only that the rift he made 
May close between us, here I am 

wholly king. 
The word should come from him. 
Becket {kneeling). Then, my dear 
liege, 
T here deliver all this controversy 
Into your royal hands. 

Henry. Ah, Thomas, Thomas, 

Thou art thyself again, Thomas again. 

Becket (rising). Saving God's honor! 

Henry. Out upon thee, man ! 

Saving the Devil's honor, his yes and 

no. 



BECKET. 



645 



Knights, bisliops, earls, this London 
spawn — by Mahound, 

I had sooner have been born a Mus- 
sulman — 

Less clashing with their priests — 

I am half-way down tlie slope — will 
no man stay me "^ 

I dash myself to pieces — I stay my- 
self— 

Puff — it is gone. You, Master 
Becket, you 

That owe to me your power over me — 

Nay, nay — 

Brother of France, you have taken, 
cherish'd him 

Who thief-like fled from his own 
church by night, 

No man pursuing. I would have had 
him back. 

Take heed he do not turn and rend 
you too : 

For whatsoever may displease him — 
that 

Is clean against God's honor — a shift, 
a trick 

Whereby to challenge, face me out of 
all 

M}^ regal rights. Yet, yet — that 
none may dream 

I go against God's honor — a}^ or him- 
self 

In any reason, choose 

A hundred of the wisest heads from 
England, 

A hundred, too, from Normandy and 
Anjon : 

Let these decide on what was cus- 
tomary 

In olden days, and all the Church of 
France 

Decide on their decision, I am con- 
tent. 

More, what the mightiest and the 
holiest 

Of all his predecessors maj^ have done 

Ev'n to the least and meanest of my 
own. 

Let him do the same to me — I am 
content. 
Louis. Ay, ay ! the King humbles 

himself enough. 
Becket (aside). Words! he will 
wriggle out of them like an eel 

When the time serves. (Aloud.) My 
lieges and my lords. 

The thanks of Holy Church are due 
to those 

That went before us for their work, 
which we 

Inheriting reap an easier harvest. 

Yet 

Louis. My lord, will you be greater 
than the Saints, 

More than St. Peter? whom 

what is it you doubt "? 

Behold your peace at hand. 



Becket. I say that those 

Who went before us did not wholly 
clear 

The deadly growths of earth, which 
Hell's own heat 

So dwelt on that they rose and dark- 
• en'd Heaven. 

Yet they did much. Would God thej- 
liad torn up all 

By the hard root, which shoots again; 
our trial 

Had so been less ; but, seeing thej' 
were men 

Defective or excessive, must we fol- 
low 

All that they overdid or underdid ? 

Nay, if tliey were defective as St. 
Peter 

Denying Clirist, who yet defied the 
tyrant. 

We hold by his defiance, not his de- 
fect. 

good son Louis, do not counsel 

me, 
No, to suppress God's honor for the 

sake 
Of any king that breathes. No, God 

forbid ! 
Henri/. No ! God forbid ! and turn 

me Mussulman ! 
No God but one, and Mahound is his 

prophet. 
But for your Christian, look you, you 

shall have 
None other God but me — me, Thomas, 

son 
Of Gilbert Becket, London merchant. 

Out ! 

1 hear no more. [Exit. 
Louis. Our brother's anger puts 

him. 
Poor man, beside himself — not wise. 

My lord. 
We have claspt j'our cause, believing 

that our brother 
Had wrong'd you ; but this day he 

proffer'd peace. 
You will have war ; and tho' we grant 

the Church 
King over this world's kings, yet, my 

good lord, 
We that are kings are something in 

this world, 
And so we pray j'ou, draw yourself 

from under 
The wings of France. We shelter 

you no more. [Exit. 

John of Oxford. I am glad that 

France hath scouted him at 

last : 
I told the Pope what manner of man 

he was. [Exit. 

Roger of York. Yea, since he flouts 

the will of either realm, 
Let either cast him away like a dead 

dog ! [Exit. 



646 



BECKET. 



Foliot. Yea, let a stranger spoil his 
heritage, 
And let another take his bishoprick ! 

{_Exit. 
De Broc. Our castle, my lord, be- 
longs to Canterbury. 
I pray you come and take it. \_Exit. 
Fitzurse. When you will. [Exit. 
Becket. Cursed be John of Oxford, 
Roger of York, 
And Gilbert Foliot ! cursed those De 

Brocs 
That hold our Saltwood Castle from 

our see ! 
Cursed Fitzurse, and all the rest of 

them 
That sow this hate between my lord 
and me ! 
Voices front the Crowd. Blessed be 
the Lord Archbishop, who hath with- 
stood two Kings to their faces for the 
honor of God. 

Beckei. Out of the mouths of babes 
and sucklings, praise ! 
I thank you, sons ; when kings but 

hold by crowns. 
The crowd that hungers for a crown 

in Heaven 
Is my true king. 

Herbert. Thy -true King bade thee be 

A fisher of men ; thou hast them in 

thy net. 

Becket. I am too like the King 

here ; both of us 

Too headlong for our office. Better 

have been 
A fisherman at Bosham, my good, 

Hei'bert, 
Thy birthplace — the sea-creek — the 

petty rill 
That falls into it — the green field — 

the gray church — 
The simple lobster-basket, and. the 

mesh — 
The more or less of daily labor done — 
The pretty gaping bills in the home- 
nest 
Piping for bread — the daily want 

supplied — 
The daily pleasure to supply it. 

Herbert. Ah, Thomas, 

You had not borne it, no, not for a 
day. 
Becket. Well, maybe^ no. 
Herbert. But bear with Walter Map, 
For here he comes to comment on 
the time. 

Enter Walter Map. 
Walter Map, Pity, my lord, that 
you have quenched the warmth of 
France toward you, tho' His Holiness, 
after much smouldering and smoking, 
be kindled again upon your quarter. 
Becket. Ay, if he do not end in 
smoke again. 



Walter Map. My lord, the fire, 
when first kindled, said to the smoke, 
" Go up, my son, straight to Heaven." 
And the smoke said, " I go " ; but 
anon the Xorth-east took and turned 
him South-west, then the South-west 
turned him North-east, and so of the 
other winds ; but it w-as in him to go 
up straight if tlie time had been 
quieter. Your lordship affects the 
unwavering perpendicular; but His 
Holiness, pushed one way by the Em- 
pire and another by England, if he 
move at all. Heaven stay him, is fain 
to diagonalize. 

Herbert. Diagonalize ! thou art a 
word-monger ! 
Our Thomas never will diagonalize. 
Thou art a jester and a verse-maker. 
Diagonalize ! 

Walter Map. Is the world any the 
worse for my verses if the Latin 
rhymes be rolled out from a full 
mouth ? or any harm done to the 
people if my jest be in defence of the 
Truth ? 

Becket. Ay, if the jest be so done 
that the people 
Delight to wallow in the grossness of it, 
Till Truth herself be shamed of her 

defender. 
Non defensor ibus istis, Walter Map. 

Wedter Map. Is that mj' case ? so if 
the city be sick, and I cannot call the 
kennel sweet, your lordship would sus- 
pend me from verse-writing, as you 
suspended yourself after sub-writing 
to the customs. 

Becket. I pray God pardon mine in- 
firmity. 

Walter Map. Nay, my lord, take 
heart; for tho' you suspended yourself, 
the Pope let you down again; and tho' 
you suspend Foliot or another, the 
Pope will not leave thein in suspense, 
for the Pope himself is always in sus- 
pense, like Mahound's cofiin hung be- 
tween heaven and earth — always in 
suspense, like the scales, till the weight 
of Germany or the gold of England 
brings one of them down to the dust 

— always in suspense, like the tail of 
the horologe — to and fro — tick-tack 

— we make the time, we keep the time, 
ay, and we serve the time ; for 1 have 
heard say that if you boxed the Pope's 
ears with a purse, you might stagger 
him, but he would pocket the purse. 
No saying of mine — Jocelyn of Salis- 
bury. But the King hath bought half 
the College of Redhats. He warmed 
to you to-day, and you have chilled 
him again. Yet you both love God. 
Agree with him quickly again, even 
for the sake of the Church. My one 
grain of good couhsel which you will 



BECKET. 



647 



not swallow. I hate a split between 
old friendships as I hate the dirty gap 
in the face of a Cistercian monk, that 
will swallow anything. Farewell. 

[Exit. 
Becket. Map scoffs at Rome. I all 

but hold with Map. 
Save for myself no Rome were left in 

England, 
All had been his. Why should this 

Rome, this Rome, 
Still choose Bai-abbas rather than the 

Christ, 
Absolve the left-hand thief and damn 

the right ? 
Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacri- 
lege, 
Which even' Peter had not dared 1 

condemn 
The blameless exile ? — 

Herbert. Thee, thou holy Thomas ! 
I would that thou hadst been the Holy 

Father. 
Becket. I would have done my most 

to keep Rome holy, 
I would have made Rome know she 

still is Rome — 
Who stands aghast at her eternal self 
And khakes at mortal kings — her 

vacillation. 
Avarice, craft — God, how many an 

innocent 
Has left his bones upon the way to 

Rome 
Unwept, uncared for. Yea — on mine 

own self 
The King had had no power except 

for Rome. 
'Tis not the King who is guilty of 

mine exile. 
But Rome, Rome, Rome ! 

Herbert. My lord, I see this Louis 
Returning, ah ! to drive thee from his 

realm. 
Becket. He said as much before. 

Thou art no prophet. 
Nor yet a prophet's son. 

Herbert.- Whatever he say. 

Deny not thou God's honor for a king. 
The King looks troubled. 

Re-enter King Louis. 
Louis. My dear lord Archbishop, 
I learn but now that those poor Poite- 

vins, 
That in thy cause were stirr'd against 

King Henry, 
Have been, despite his kingly promise 

given 
To our own self of pardon, evilly used 
And put to paiii. I have lost all trust 

in him. 
The Church alone hath eyes — and 

now I see 
That I was blind — suffer the phrase 

— surrendering 



God's honor to the pleasure of a man. 

Forgive me and absolve me, holy 

father. \_Kneeh. 

Becket. Son, I absolve thee in the 

name of God. 
Louis (rising). Return to Sens, where 
we will care for you. 
The wine and wealth of all our France 

are yours ; 

Rest in our realm, and be at peace 

with all. [Exeunt. 

Voices from the Crowd. Long live the 

good King Louis ! God bless the 

great Archbishop ! 

Re-enter Henry and John of 
Oxford. 

Henri/ (looking after King Louis and 

Becket). Ay, there they go — 

both backs are turn'd to me — 
Why then I strike into my former 

path 
For England, crown young Henry 

there, and make 
Our waning Eleanor all but love me ! 

John, 
Thou hast served me heretofore with 

Rome — and well. 
They call thee John the Swearer. 

John of Oxford. For this reason. 
That, being ever duteous to the King, 
I evermore have sivorn upon his side. 
And ever mean to do it. 

Henry (claps him on shoulder). Honest 

John ! 
To Rome again ! the storm begins 

again. 
Spare not thy tongue ! be lavish with 

our coins, 
Threaten our junction Avith the Em- 
peror — flatter 
And fright the Pope — bribe all the 

Cardinals — leave 
Lateran and Vatican in one dust of 

gold — 
Swear and unswear, state and misstate 

thy best ! 
I go to have young Henry crown'd by 

York. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. — The Bowes. 

Henry and Rosamund. 

Henrjj. All that yoH say is just. I 
cannot answer it 
Till better times, when I shall jiut 

away 

Rosamund. What will you put 

away ? 
Henrji. That which you ask me 

Till better times. Let it content you 
now 



648 



BECKET. 



There is no woman that I love so 
well. 
Rosamund. No woman but should 

be content with tliat — 
Henri/. And one fair child to fon- 
dle ! 
Bosiunund. yes, the child 

We waited for so long — heaven's gift 

at last — 
And how you doated on him then ! 

To-day 
I almost fear'd your kiss w-as colder 

— yes — 

But then the child is such a child. 

"What chance 
That he should ever spread into the 

man 
Here in our silence ? I have done my 

best. 
I am not learn'd. 

Henry. I am the King, his father, 
And I will look to it. Is our secret 

ours ? 
Have you had any alarm? no stranger? 
Rosamund. No. 

The warder of the bower hath given 

liimself 
Of late to wine. I sometimes think 

he sleeps 
^Y]len he should watch ; and yet what 

fear ? the people 
Believe the wood enclianted. No one 

comes. 
Nor foe nor friend ; his fond excess of 

wine 
Springs from the loneliness of my 

poor bower, 
Which weighs even on me. 

Henrij. Yet these tree-towers, 

Xbeir long bird-echoing minster-aisles, 

— the voice 

Of the perijetual brook, these golden 

slopes 
; Of Solomon-shaming flowers — that 

was your saying, 
All pleased j'ou so at first. 

Rosamund. Not now so much. 

My Anjou bower was scarce as beau- 
tiful. 
But you were oftener there. I have 

none but you. 
The brook's voice is not yours, and no 

flower, not 
The sun himself, should he be changed 

to one. 
Could shine away the darkness of that 

gap 
Left by the lack of love. 

Henri/. The lack of love ! 

Rosamund. Of one we love. Nay, 
I would not be bold, 

Yet hoped ere this you might 

[LooLs earnestJi/ at him. 
Henri/. .Anything further ? 

Rosatnund. Only my best bower- 
maiden died of late, 



And that old priest whom John of 

Salisbury trusted 
Hath sent another. 

Henry. Secret ? 

Rosatnund. I but ask'd her 

One question, and she primm'd her 

mouth and put 
Her hands together — thus — and said, 

God help her. 
That she was sworn to silence. 

Henry. What did you ask her ? 

Rosamund. Some daily something- 
nothing. 
Henry. Secret, then ? 

Rosamund. I do not lovelier. Must 
you go, my liege, 
So suddenly ? 

Henry. I came to England suddenly, 
And on a great occasion sure to 
wake 

As great a wrath in Becket 

Rosamund. Always Becket ! 

He always comes between us. 

Henry. — And to meet it 

I needs must leave as suddenly. It is 

raining, 
Put on j-our hood and see me to tlie 
bounds. [E.reunt. 

Margery [singing behind scene). 

Babble in bower 

Under the rose ! 
Bee mustn't buzz. 

Whoop — but he knows. 

Kiss me, little one, 

Nobody near ! 
Grasshopper, grasshopper. 

Whoop — you can liear. 

Kiss in the bower. 

Tit on the tree ! 
Bird mustn't tell. 

Whoop — he can see. 

Enter Margery. 
I ha' been but a week here and I ha' 
seen what I ha' seen, for to be sure it's 
no more than a week since our old 
Father Philip tliat has confessed our 
motlier for twentj- years, and she Mas 
hard put to it, and to sjieak truth, 
nigli at tlie end of our last crust, and 
that mould}-, and she cried out to him 
to put me forth in the world and to 
make me a woman of the world, and 
to win my own bread, wliereupon lie 
asked our mother if I could keep a 
quiet tongue i' my head, and not s])eak 
till I was spoke to, and 1 answered for 
myself that I never spoke more tlian 
was needed, and he told me he would 
advance me to the service of a great 
lady, and took me ever so far away, 
and gave me a great pat o' the cheek 
for a pretty- wench, and said it was a 



BECKET. 



649 



pity to blindfold such eyes as mine, 
and such to be sure they be, but he 
blinded 'em for ;ill that, and so brought 
me no-hows as I may say, and the more 
shame to him after liis jjromise, into 
a garden and not into the world, and 
bade me whatever I saw not to speak 
one word, an' it 'ud be well for me in 
the end, for tliere were great ones who 
would look after me, and to be sure I 
ha' seen great ones to-da^- — and then 
not to speak one word, for tliat's the 
rule o' the garden, tho' to be sure if I 
had been Eve i' tlie garden I sliouldn't 
ha' minded the apple, for wliat's an 
apple, you know, save to a child, and 
I'm no child, but more a woman o' the 
world than my lady here, and I ha' 
seen what I ha' seen — tho' to be sure 
if I hadn't minded it we should all on 
us ha' had to go, bless the Saints, wi' 
bare backs, but the backs 'ud ha' coun- 
tenanced one another, and belike it 'ud 
ha' been always summer, and anyhow 
I am as well-shaped as my lady here, 
and I ha' seen what I ha' seen, and 
what's the good of my talking to my- 
self, for here comes my lady [anler 
Rosamund), and, my lady, tho' I 
shouldn't speak one word, I wish you 
joy o' tiie King's brother. 

Rosamund, \yhat is it you mean? 

Alarijery. I mean your goodman, 
your husband, my lady, for I saw your 
ladyship a-parting wi' him even now 
i' the coppice, when I was a-getting o' 
bluebells for your ladyship's nose to 
smell on — and I ha' seen the King 
once at Oxford, and he's as like the 
King as fingernail to fingernail, and I 
thought at first it was the King, only 
you know the King's married, for King 
Louis 

Eosainund. Married ! 

Margery. Years and years, my lady, 
for her husband. King Louis 

Rosamund. Hush ! 

Margery. — And I thought if it were 
the King's brother he had a better 
bride than the King, for the people do 
say that his is bad beyond all reckon- 
ing, and 

Rosamund. The people lie. 

Margery. Very like, my lady, but 
most on 'em know an honest woman 
and a lady when they see her, and be- 
sides they say, she makes songs, and 
that's against her, for I never knew an 
honest woman that could make songs, 
tho' to be sure our mother 'ill sing me 
old songs by the hour, but then, God 
help her, she had 'em from her mother, 
and her mother from her mother back 
and back for ever so long, but none 
on 'em ever made songs, and they were 
all honest. 



Rosamund. Go, you shall tell me of 

her some other time. 
Margery. There's none so much to 
tell on her, my lady, only she kept the 
seventh commandment better tlian 
some I know on, or I couldn't look 
your ladyship i'the face, and shebrew'd 
the best ale in all Glo'ster.that is to say 
in her time when she had the " Crown." 
Rosamund. The crown! who i 
Margery. Mother. 
Rosamund. I mean her whom you 
call — fancy — my husband's brother's 
wife. 

Margery. Oh, Queen Eleanor. Yes, 
mj'^ lady ; and tho' I be sworn not to 
speak a word, I can tell you all about 

her, if 

Rosamund. No word now. I am 

faint and sleepy. Leave me. 
Nay — go. What ! will you anger me. 
lExit Margery. 
He charged me not to question any of 

those 
Aboutme. Havel? no! she question'd 

7)1 e. 
Did she not slander him ? Should she 

stay here ? 
IMay she not tempt me, being at my 

side, 
To question her ? Nay, can I send her 

hence 
"Without his kingly leave ! I am in 

the dark. 
I have lived, poor bird, from cage to 

cage, and known 
Nothing but him — happy to know no 

more. 
So that he loved me — and he loves 

me — yes. 
And bound me by his love to secrecy 
Till his own time. 

Eleanor, Eleanor, have I 
Not heard ill things of her in France ? 

Oh, she's 
The Queen of France. I see it — some 

confusion, 
Some strange mistake. I did not hear 

aright. 
Myself confused with parting from the 

King. 
Margery {behind scene). 

Bee mustn't buzz, 

Whoop — but he knows. 
Rosamund. Yet her — what her? he 

hinted of some her — 
When he was here before — 
Something that would displease me. 

Hath he stray'd 
From love's clear path into the com- 
mon bush, 
And, being scratch'd, returns to his 

true rose, 
Who hath not thorn enough to prick 

him for it, 
Ev'n with a word ? 



650 



BECKET. 



Margerij (behind scene). 
Bird mustn't tell, 
Whoop — he can see. 
Rosamund. I would not hear him. 
Nr}' — there's more — he frown'd 
" No mate for her, if it should come 

to that " — 
To that — to what 1 
Muryerij (behind scene). 

Whoop — but he knows. 
Whoop — but he knows. 
Rosamund. O God ! some dreadful 
truth is breaking on me — 
Some dreadful thing is coming on me. 

Entey- Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey ! 
Geoffrey. What are you crying for, 

when the sun shines ? 
Rosamund. Hath not thy father left 

us to ourselves '? 
Geojf'rei/. Ay, but he's taken the 
rain witli him. I hear Margery : 
I'll go play with her. 

[Exit Geoffrey. 
Rosamund. Eainbow, stay, 
Gleam upon gloom. 
Bright as my dream. 
Rainbow, stay ! 
But it passes away, 
Gloom upon gleam, 
Dark as my doom — 
O rainbow, stay. 

SCENE IT. — Outside the Woods 
NEAR Rosamund's Bower. 

Eleanor. Fitzurse. 

Eleanor. Up from the salt lips of 
the land we tAvo 
Have track'd the King to this dark 

inland wood ; 
And somewhere hereabouts he van- 

ish'd. Here 
His turtle builds : his exit is our 

adit : 
Watch ! he will out again, and pres- 
ently. 
Seeing he must to Westminster and 

crown 
Young Henry there to-morrow. 

Fitzurse. We have watch'd 

So long in vain, he hath pass'd out 

again. 
And on the other side. 

\_A great horn winded. 

Hark ! Madam ! 

Eleanor. Ah, 

How ghostly sounds that horn in the 

back wood ! 

\_A countri/man JJi/ing. 

Whither away, man ? what are you 

flying from 1 

Countri/nian. The witch ! the witch ! 

she sits naked by a great heap of 



gold in the middle of the wood, and 
when the horn sounds she comes out 
as a wolf. Get you hence ! a man 
passed in there to-day : I hoUa'd to 
him, but he didn't hear me : he'll 
never out again, the witch has got 
him. I daren't stay — I daren't stay ! 
Eleanor. Kind of the witch to give 
thee warning the'. \_Man flies. 
Is not this wood-witch of the rustic's 

fear 
Our woodland Circe that hath witch'd 
the King ? 

[Horn sounded. Another Jli/ing. 
Fitzurse. Again ! stay, fool, and tell 

me why thou fliest. 
Countryman. Ely thou too. The 
King keeps his forest head of game 
here, and when that horn sounds, a 
score of wolf-dogs are let loose that 
will tear thee piecemeal. Linger not 
till the third horn. Fly ! [E.vit. 

Eleanor. This is the likelier tale. 
We have hit the place. 
Now let the King's fine game look to 
itself. [Horn. 

Fitzurse. Again ! — 
And far on in the dark heart of the 

wood 
I hear tlie yelping of the hounds of 
hell. 
Eleanor. I have my dagger here to 

still their throats. 
Fitzurse. Nay, Madam, not to-night 
— the night is falling. 
What can be done to-night 1 

Eleanor. Well — well — away. 



SCENE III. — Traitor's Meadow 
at Freteval. Pavilions and 
Tents of the English and 
French Baronage. 

Becket and Herbert of Bosiiam. 

Becket. See here ! 
Herbert. What's here ? 
Becket. A notice from the priest. 
To whom our John of Salisbury com- 
mitted 
The secret of the bower, that our 

wolf-Queen 
Is prowling round the fold. I should 

be back 
In England ev'n for this. 

Herbert. These are by-things 

In the great cause. 

Becket. The by-things of the Lord 
Are the wrong'd innocences that will 

cry 
From all the hidden by-ways of the 

w'orld 
In the great day against the wronger. 

I know 
Thy meaning. Perish she, I, all, be- 
fore 



BECKET. 



651 



The Church should suffer wrong ! 
Herbert. Do you see, my lord, 

There is the King talking with Wal- 
ter Map ? 
Becket. He hath the Pope's last let- 
ters, and they threaten 

The immediate thunder-blast of inter- 
dict : 

Yet he can scarce be touching upon 
those, 

Or scarce would smile that fashion. 
Herbert. Winter sunshine ! 

Beware of opening out thy bosom to it, 

Lest thou, myself, and all thy flock 
should catch 

An after ague-fit of trembling. Look ! 

He bows, he bares his head, he is 
coming hither, 

Still with a smile. 

Enter King Henry and Walter 
Map. 

Henry. We have had so many hours 
together, Thomas, 
So many happy hours alone together. 
That I would speak with you once 
more alone. 

Becket. My liege, your will and 
happiness are mine. 

\_Exeunt King and Becket. 

Herbert. The same smile still. 

Walter Map. Do you see that great 
black cloud that hath come over the 
sun and cast us all into shadow "? 

Herbert. And feel it too. 

Walter Map. And see you yon" side- 
beam that is forced from under it, 
and sets tlie church-tower over there 
all a-hell-fire as it were ? 

Herbert. Ay. 

Walter Map. It is this black, bell- 
silencing, anti-raarrying, burial-hin- 
dering interdict that hath squeezed 
out this side-smile upon Canterbury, 
whereof may come conflagration. 
Were I Thomas, I wouldn't trust it. 
Sudden change is a house on sand ; 
and tho' I count Henry honest enough, 
yet when fear creeps in at the front, 
honesty steals out at the back, and 
the King at last is fairly scared by 
by this cloud — this interdict. I have 
been more for the King than the 
Church in this matter — yea, even for 
the sake of the Church : for, truly, as 
the case stood, 3-011 had safelier have 
slain an archbishop than a she-goat : 
but our recoverer and upholder of cus- 
toms hath in this crowning of young 
Henry by York and London so violated 
the immemorial usage of the Church, 
that, like the gravedigger's child I have 
heard of, trying to ring tlie bell, he 
liath half-hanged himself in tlie rojie 
of the Church, or rather pulled all 



the Church with the Holy Father 
astride of it down upon his own head. 

Herbert. Were you there ? 

Walter Map. In the church rope ? 
— no. I was at the crowning, for I 
have pleasure in the pleasure of 
crowds, and to read the faces of men 
at a great show. 

Herbert. And how did Roger of 
York comport himself ? 

Water Map. As magnificently and 
archiepiscopally as our Thomas would 
have done : only there was a dare- 
devil in his eye — I should say a dare- 
Becket. He thought less of two 
kings than of one Roger the king of 
the occasion. Foliot is the holier 
man, perhaps the better. Once or 
twice there ran a twitch across his 
face as who should say what's to fol- 
low ? but Salisbury was a calf cowed 
by Mother Church, and every now 
and then glancing about him like a 
thief at night when he hears a door 
open in the house and thinks " the 
master." 

Herbert. And the father-king ? 

Walter Map. The father's eye was 
so tender it would have called a goose 
ofE the green, and once he strove to 
hide his face, like the Greek king 
when his daughter was sacrificed, but 
he thought better of it : it was but 
the sacrifice of a kingdom to his son, 
a smaller matter; but as to the young 
crownling himself, he looked so mala- 
pert in the eyes, that had I fathered 
him I had given him more of the rod 
than the sceptre. Then followed the 
thunder of the captains and the shout- 
ing, and so we came on to the ban- 
quet, from whence there puffed out 
such an incense of unctuosity into 
the nostrils of our Gods of Church 
and State, that Lucullus or Apicius 
might have snififed it in their Hades 
of heathenism, so that the smell of 
their own roast had not come across 
it 

Herbert. Map, tho' you make your 
butt too big, you overshoot it. 

Walter Map. — For as to the fish, 
they de-miracled the miraculous 
draught, and might have sunk a 
navy 

Herbert. There again, Goliasing and 
Goliathising ! 

Walter Map. — And as for the flesh 
at table, a whole Peter's sheet, with all 
manner of game, and four-footed 
things, and fowls 

Herbert. And all manner of creep- 
ing things too 1 

Walter Map. — Well, there were 
Abbots — Init they did not bring their 
women ; and so we were dull enough 



652 



BECKET. 



at first, but in the end we flourished 
out into a merriment ; for the old 
King would act servitor and hand a 
dish to his son ; wliereupon my Lord 
of York — his fine-cut face bowing 
and beaming with all that courtesy 
which hath less loyalty in it than the 
backward scrape of the clown's heel 

— " great lionor," says lie, "from the 
King's self to tlie King's son." Did 
you hear the j'oung King's quip ? 

Herbert. Ko, what was it ? 

Walter Map. Glancing at the days 
when his father was only Earl of 
Anjou, he answered: — "Should not 
an earl's son wait on a king's son ? " 
And when the cold corners of the 
King's mouth began to thaw, there 
was a gi'eat motion of laughter among 
us, part real, part childlike, to be 
freed from tlie dulness — part royal, 
for King and kingling both laughed, 
and so we could not but laugh, as by 
a royal necessity — part childlike again 

— when we felt we had laughed too 
long and could not stay ourselves — 
many midrift'-shaken even to tears, as 
springs gush out after earthquakes — 
but from those, as I said before, there 
may come a conflagration — tho', to 
keep the figure moist and make it liold 
water, I should say rather, the lacry- 
mation of a lamentation ; but look if 
Thomas have not flung liimself at the 
King's feet. They have made it up 
again — for the moment. 

Herbert. Thanks to the blessed 
Magdalen, whose day it is. 

Re-enter Henry and Becket. {Dur- 
incj their conference the Barons and 
Bishops of France and England 
come in at back of stage.) 

Becket. Ay, King ! for in thy king- 
dom, as thou knowest. 
The spouse of the Great King, tliy 

King, hath fallen — 
The daughter of Zion lies beside the 

way — 
The priests of Baal tread her under- 
foot — 
The golden ornaments are stolen from 

her 

Henry. Have I not promised to re- 
store her, Thomas, 
And send thee back again to Canter- 
bury ? 
Becket. Send back again those exiles 
of my kin 
Who wander famine-wasted thro' the 
world. 
Henry. Have I not promised, man, 

to send them back ? 
Becket. Yet one thing more. Thou 
hast broken thro' the pales 



Of privilege, crowning thy young son 

by York, 
London and Salisbury — not Canter- 
bury. 
Henry. York crown'd the Conqueror 

— not Canterbury. 
Becket. There was no Canterbury in 

William's time. 
Henry. But Hereford, you know, 

crown'd the first Henry. 
Becket. But Anselm crown'd thi> 

Henry o'er again. 
Henry. And thou shalt crown my 

Henry o'er again. 
Becket. And is it then with thy good- 
will that I 
Proceed against thine evil councillors, 
And hurl the dread ban of the Church 

on those 
Who made the second mitre play the 

first, 
And acted me 1 

Henry. Well, well, then — have thy 
way ! 
It may be they were evil councillors. 
What more, my lord Archbishop ? 

What more, Thomas ? 
I make thee full amends. Say all 

thy say. 
But blaze not out before the French- 
men here. 
Becket. More ? Nothing, so thy 

promise be thy deed. 

Henry {holding out his hand). Give 

me thy hand. My Lords of 

France and England, 

My friend of Canterbury anil myself 

Are now once more at perfect amity. 

Unkingly should I be, and most un- 

knightly. 
Not striving still, however much in 

vain, 
To rival him in Christian charity. 
Herbert. All praise to Heaven, and 

sweet St. Magdalen ! 
Henry. And so farewell until we 

meet in England. 
Becket. I fear, my liege, we may not 

meet in England. 
Henry. How, do you make me a 

traitor ? 
Becket. No, indeed ! 

That be far from thee. 

Henry. Come, stay with us, then, 
Before j'ou jiart for England. 

Becket. I am bound 

For that one hour to stay with good 

King Louis, 
Who helpt me when none else. 

Herbert. He said thy life 

Was not one hour's worth in England 

save 
King Henry gave thee first the kiss of 
peace. 
Henry. He said so "? Louis, did he ? 
look you, Herbert. 



BECKET. 



653 



Wlien I was in mine anger with King 

Louis, 
I sware I would not give the kiss of 

peace, 
Not on French ground, nor any ground 

but Englisli, 
Where his cathedral stands. Mine 

old friend, Tliomas, 
I would there were that perfect trust 

between us. 
That health of heart, once ours, ere 

Pope or King 
Had come between us ! Even now — 

who knows ? — 
I might deliver all things to thy hand — 
If . . . but I say no more . . . fare- 
well, my lord. 
Becket. Farewell, my liege ! 

[Exit Henry, then the Barons and 

Bishops. 
Walter Mail. There again! when the 
full fruit of the royal promise might 
have dropt into thy mouth hadst thou 
but opened it to thank him. 

Becket. He fenced his royal promise 

with an if. 
Walter Map. And is the King's if too 
high a stile for your lordship to over- 
sttjp and come at all things in the next 
field ? 

Becket. Ay, if this if be like the 

Devil's " //' 
Thou wilt fall down and worship me." 
Herbert. Oh, Thomas, 

I could fall down and worship thee, 

my Thomas, 
For thou hast trodden this wine-press 

alone. 
Becket. Nay, of the people there are 

many with me. 
Walter Map. I am not altogether 
with you, my lord, tho' I am none of 
those that would raise a storm between 
you, lest ye should draw together like 
two ships in a calm. You wrong the 
King : he meant what he said to-day. 
Who shall vouch for his to-morrows ? 
One word further. Doth not i\\Q few- 
ness of anything make the fulness of 
it in estimation ? Is not virtue prized 
mainly for its rarity and great base- 
ness loathed as an exception : for were 
all, my lord, as noble as yourself, who 
would look up to you ? and were all 
as base as — who shall I say — Fitzurse 
and his following — who would look 
down upon themi My lord, you have 
put so many of the King's household 
out of communion, that they begin to 
smile at it. 

Becket. At their peril, at their 

peril 

Walter Map. — For tho' the drop 
may hollow out the dead stone, doth 
not the living skin thicken against 
perpetual whippings ? This is the 



second grain of good counsel I ever 
proffered thee, and so cannot suffer 
by the rule of frequency. Have I 
sown it in salt ? I trust not, for be- 
fore God I promise you the King 
hath many more wolves than he can 
tame in his woods of England, and if 
it suit their purpose to howl for the 
King, and you still move against him, 
you may have no less than to die for 
it ; but God and his free wind grant 
your lordship a happy home-return 
and the King's kiss of peace in Kent. 
Farewell ! I must follow the King. 

[Exit. 
Herbert. Ay, and I warrant the 

customs. Did the King 
Speak of the customs ? 

Becket. No ! — to die for it — 

I live to die for it, I die to live for it. 
The State will die, the Church can 

never die. 
The King's not like to die for that 

which dies; 
But I must die for that which never 

dies. 
It will be so — my visions in the 

Lord : 
It must be so, my friend ! t'ne wolves 

of England 
Must murder her one shepherd, that 

the sheep 
May feed in peace. False figure, Map 

Avould say. 
Earth's falses are heaven's truths. 

And when my voice 
Is martyr'd mute, and this man dis- 
appears, 
That perfect trust may come again 

between us. 
And there, there, there, not here I 

shall rejoice 
To find my stray shoeji back within 

the fold. 
The crowd are scattering, let us move 

away ! 
And thence to England. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. — The Outskirts of the 
Bower. 

Geoffrey {coming out of the u-ood). 
Light again ! light again ! Margery ? 
no, that's a finer thing there. How 
it glitters ! 

Eleanor (entering). Come to me, little 
one. How camest thou hither ? 

Lieoffreij. On my legs. 

Eleanor. And mighty pretty legs 
too. Thou art the prettiest child I 
ever saw. Wilt thou love me ^ 

Geoffrey. No ; I only love mother. 

Eleanor. Ay; andwhois thymother? 



654 



BECKET. 



Geoffreij. They call her But 

she lives secret, you see. 

Eleanor. Why ? 

Geoffrey. Don't know why. 

Eleanor. Ay, but some one comes 
to see her now and then. Who is he ? 

Geoffrey. Can't tell. 

Eleanor. What does she call him "? 

Geoffrey. My liege. 

Eleanor. Pretty one, how camest 
thou ? 

Geoffrey. There was a bit of yellow 
silk here and there, and it looked 
pretty like a glowworm, and I thought 
if I followed it I should find the fairies. 

Eleanor. I am the fairy, pretty one, 
a good fairy to thy mother. Take me 
to her. 

Geoffrey. There are good fairies 
and bad fairies, and sometimes she 
cries, and can't sleep sound o' nights 
because of the bad fairies. 

Eleanor. She shall cry no more; 
she shall sleep sound enough if thou 
wilt take me to her. I am her good 
fairy. 

Geoffrey. But you don't look like a 
good fairy. Mother does. You are 
not pretty, like mother. 

Eleanor. We can't all of us be as 
pretty as thou art — (aside) little bas- 
tard. Come, here is a golden chain I 
will give thee if thou wilt lead me to 
thy mother. 

Geoffrey. No — no gold. Mother 
says gold spoils all. Love is the only 
gold. 

Eleanor. I love thy mother, my 
pretty boy. Show me where thou 
camest out of the wood. 

Geoffrey. By this tree ; but I don't 
know if I can find the way back again. 

Eleanor. Where's the warder "? 

Geoffrey. Very bad. Somebody 
struck him. 

Eleanor. Ay ? who was that ? 

Geoffrey. Can't tell. But I heard 
say he had had a stroke, or you'd 
have heard his horn before now. 
Come along, then ; we shall see the 
silk here and there, and I want my 
supper. [^Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Rosamund's Bower. 

Rosamund. The boy so late ; pray 
God, he be not lost. 

I sent this Margery, and she comes 
not back ; 

I sent another, and she comes not 
back. 

I go myself — so many alleys, cross- 
ings, 

Paths, avenues — nay, if I lost him, 
now 



The folds have fallen from the mys- 
tery. 
And left all naked, I were lost indeed. 

Enter Geoffrey and Eleanor. 

Geoffrey, the pain thou hast put me to ! 
[Seeing Eleanor. 
Ha, you ! 

How came you hither ? 

Eleanor. Your own child brought 

me hither ! 
Geoffrey. You said you couldn't 

trust Margery, and I watched her and 

followed lier into the woods, and I lost 

her and went on and on till I found 

the light and the lady, and she says 

she can make you sleep o' nights. 
Hosamund. How dared you ? Know 
you not this bower is secret. 

Of and belonging to the King of Eng- 
land, 

More sacred than his forests for the 
chase ? 

Nay, nay. Heaven help you ; get you 
hence in haste 

Lest worse befall you. 

Eleanor. Child, I am mine own self 

Of andbelonging to the King. The King 

Hath divers ofs and ous, ofs and be- 
longings. 

Almost as many as your true Mussul- 
man — 

Belongings, paramours, Mhom it 
pleases him 

To call his wives ; but so it chances, 
child. 

That I am his main paramour, his 
sultana. 

But since the fondest pair of doves 
will jar, 

Ev'n in a cage of gold, we had words 
of late, 

And thereupon he call'd my children 
bastards. 

Do you believe that you are married 
to him 1 
Rosamund. I should believe it. 
Eleanor. You must not believe it. 

Because I have a wliolesome medicine 
here 

Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, 
beauty ! 

Do you believe that you are marrried 
to him ? 
Rosamund. Geoffrey, my boj', I 

saw the ball you lost in the fork of 

the great willow over the brook. Go. 

See that you do not fall in. Go. 
Geoffrey. And leave you alone with 

the good fairy. She calls you beauty, 

but I don't like her looks. Well, you 

bid me go, and I'll have my ball anj'- 

how. Shall I find you asleep Avhen I 

come back ? 

Rosamund. Go. [Exit Geoffrey. 



BECKET. 



655 



Eleanor. He is easily found again. 

I)o you believe it % 
I pray you then to take my sleei^ing- 

draught ; 
But if you should not care to take it 

— see ! [Draics a chuiger. 

What ! have I scared the red rose 

from your face 
Into your lieart. But this will find it 

there, 
And dig it from the root for ever. 
Bosamund. Help ! help ! 

Eleanor. They say that walls have 

ears; but these, it seems, 
Have none ! and I have none — to 

pity thee. 
Rosamund. I do beseech you — my 

child is so young, 
So backward too ; I cannot leave him 

yet. 
I am not so happy I could not die my- 
self, 
But the child is so young. You have 

children — his ; 
And mine is the King's child ; so, if 

you love him — 
Nay, if you love him, there is great 

wrong done 
Somehow ; but if you do not — there 

are those 
Who say you do not love him — let 

me go 
With my j^oung boy, and I will hide 

my face. 
Blacken and gipsyfy it ; none shall 

know me ; 
The King shall never hear of me 

again, 
But I will beg my bread along the world 
With my young boy, and God will be 

our guide. 
I never meant you harm in any way. 
See, I can say no more. 

Eleanor. Will you not say you are not 

married to him ? 
Rosamund. Ay, Madam, I can sarj 

it, if you will. 
Eleanor. Then is thy pretty boy a 

bastard ? 
Rosamund. No. 
Eleanor. And thou thyself a proven 

wanton 1 
Rosamund. No. 
I am none such. I never loved but one. 
I have heard of such that range from 

love to love, 
Like the wild beast — if you can call 

it love. 
I have heard of such — yea, even 

among those 
Who sit on thrones — I never saw any 

such. 
Never knew any such, and howsoever 
You do misname me, match'd with any 

such, 
I am snow to mud. 



Eleanor. The more the pity then 
That thy true home — the heavens — 

cry out for thee 
Who art too pure for earth. 

Enter Fitzurse. 
Fitzurse. Give her to me. 
Eleanor. The Judas-lover of our 
passion-play 

Hath track'd us hither. 

Fitzurse Well, why not ? I follow'd 

You and the child : he babbled all the 
way. 

Give her to me to make my honey- 
moon. 
Eleanor. Ay, as the bears love honey. 
Could you keep her 

Indungeon'd from one whisper of the 
wind. 

Dark even from a side glance of the 
moon, 

And oublietted in the centre — No ! 

I follow out my hate and thy revenge. 
Fitzurse. You bade me take revenge 
another way — 

To bring her to the dust. . . . Come 
with me, love, 

And I will love thee. . . . Madam, 
let lier live. 

I have a far-off burrow where the King 

Would miss her and for ever. 

Eleanor. How sayest thou, sweet- 
heart 7 

Wilt thou go with him ? he will marry 
thee. 
Rosamund. Give me the poison ; 
set me free of him ! 

[Eleanor offers the vial. 

No, no ! I will not have it. 

Eleanor. Then this other. 

The wiser choice, because my sleep- 
ing-draught 

May bloat thy beauty out of shape, 
and make 

Thy body loathsome even to thy child ; 

While this but leaves thee with a bro- 
ken heart, 

A doll-face blanch'd and bloodless, 
over which 

If pretty Geoffrey do not break his 
own, 

It must be broken for him. 

Rosamund. O I see now 

Your purpose is to fright me — a 
troubadour 

You play with words. You had 
never used so many. 

Not if you meant it, I am sure. The 
child ... 

No . . . mercy ! No ! \_Kneels. 

Eleanor. Play! . . . that bosom 
never 

Heaved under the King's hand with 
such true passion 

As at this loveless knife that stirs the 
riot, 



656 



BECKET. 



Which it will quench in blood ! Slave, 

if he love thee, 
Thy life is worth the wrestle for it : 

arise, 
And dash thyself against me that I 

may slay thee ! 
The worm ! shall I let her go ? But 

ha ! what's here ? 
By very God, the cross I gave the 

King ! 
His village darling in some lewd 

caress 
Has wheedled it off the King's neck 

to her own. 
By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same ! 

I warrant 
Thou hast sworn on this my cross a 

hundred times 
Never to leave him — and that merits 

death, 
False oath on holy cross — for thou 

must leave him 
To-day, but not quite yet. My good 

Fitzurse, 
The running down the chase is kind- 
lier sport 
Ev'n than the death. Who knows 

but that thy lover 
May plead so pitifully, that I may 

spare thee ? 
Come hither, man ; stand there. ( To 

Eosamimd.) Take thy one 

chance ; 
Catch at the last straw. Kneel to 

thy lord Fitzurse ; 
Crouch even because thou hatest him ; 

fawn upon him 
For thy life and thy son's. 

Bosamund (rising). I am a Clifford, 
My son a Clifford and Plantagenet. 
I am to die then, tho' there stand 

beside thee 
One who might grapple with thy dag- 
ger, if he 
Had aught of man, or thou of 

woman ; or I 
Would bow to such a baseness as 

would make me 
Most worthy of it : both of us will die. 
And I will fly with my sweet boy to 

heaven, 
And shriek to all the saints among 

the stars : 
" Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of 

England ! 
Murder'd by that adulteress Eleanor, 
Whose doings are a horror to the east, 
A hissing in the west ! " Have we 

not heard 
Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle 

— nay, 
Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own hus- 
band's father — 
Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Sal- 

addeen 

Strike ! 



I challenge thee to meet me before 

God. 
Answer me there. 

Eleanor [raising the dagger). This' 

in thy bosom, fool, 
And after in thy bastard's ! 

Enter Becket from behind. Catches 
hold oj' her arm. 
Becket. Murderess ! 

[_The dagger Jails ; they stare at one an- 
other After a jiause. 
Eleanor. My lord, we know you 

proud of your fine hand, 
But having now admired it »long 

enough, 
We find that it is mightier than it 

seems — 
At least mine own is frailer : you are 

laming it. 
Becket. And lamed and maim'd to 

dislocation, better 
Than raised to take a life which 

Henry bade me 
Guard from the stroke that dooms 

thee after death 
To wail in deathless flame. 

Eleanor. Nor you, nor I 

Have now to learn, my lord, that our 

good Henry 
Says many a thing in sudden heats, 

which he 
Gainsays by next sunrising — often 

ready 
To tear himself for having said as 

much. 

My lord, Fitzurse 

Becket. He too ! what dost thou 

here "? 
Dares the bear slouch into the lion's 

den? 
One downward plunge of his paw 

would rend away 
Eyesight and manhood, life itself, 

from thee. 
Go, lest I blast thee with anathema, 
And make thee a world's horror. 

Fitzurse. My lord, I shall 

Remember this. 

Becket. I do remember thee ; 

Lest I remember thee to the lion, go. 

[^Exit Fitzurse. 

Take up your dagger; put it in the 

sheath. 
Eleanor. Might not your courtesy 

stoop to hand it me ? 
But crowns must bow when mitres sit 

so high. 
Well — well — too costly to be left or 

lost. [Picks up the dagger. 

I had it from an Arab soldan, who, 
AVhen I was there in Antioch, mar- 

vcll'd at 
Our unfamiliar beauties of the west ; 
But wonder'd more at my nmch con- 
stancy 



BECKET. 



657 



To tlie monk-king, Louis, our former 

burthen, 
From whom, as being too kin, you 

know, my lord, 
God's grace and Holy Church deliver'd 

us. 
I think, time given, I coukl have talk'd 

him out of 
His ten wives into one. Look at the 

hilt. 
What excellent workmanship. In our 

poor west 
AYe cannot do it so well. 

Becket. We can do worse. 

Madam, I saw your dagger at her 

throat ; 
I heard j-our savage cry. 

Eleanoc- Well acted, was it ? 

A comedy meant to seem a tragedy — 
A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you 

are known 
Thro' all the courts of Christendom as 

one 
That mars a cause with over-violence. 
You have wrong'd Fitzurse. I speak 

not of myself. 
We thought to scare this minion of the 

King 
Back from her churchless commerce 

with the King 
To the fond arms of her first love, 

Fitzurse, 
Who swore to marry her. You have 

spoilt the farce. 
My savage cry ? Why, she — she — 

when I strove 
To work against her license for her 

good, 
Bark'd out at me such monstrous 

charges, that 
The King himself, for love of his own 

sons. 
If hearing, would have spurn'd her; 

whereupon 
I menaced her with this, as when we 

threaten 
A yelper with a stick. Nay, I deny 

not 
That I was somewhat anger'd. Do you 

hear me ? 
Believe or no, I care not. You have 

lost 
The ear of the King. I have it. . . . 

My lord Paramount, 
Our great High-priest, will not your 

Holiness 
Vouchsafe a gracious answer to your 

Queen ? 
Becket. Rosamund hath not an- 

swer'd you one word ; 
Madam, I will not answer you one 

word. 
Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee. 

Leave it, daughter; 
Come thou with me to Godstow nun- 
nery, 



And live what may bo left thee of a 

life 
Saved as by miracle alone with Him 
Who gave it. 

Re-enter Geoffrey. 
Geojfrei/. Mother, you told me a 

great fib : it wasn't in the willow. 
Becket. Follow us, my son, and we 

will find it for thee — 
Or something manlier. 

lExeiint Becket, Rosamund, and 

Geoffrey. 
Eleanor. The world hath trick'd her 

— that's the King ; if so. 
There was the farce, the feint — not 

mine. And yet 
I am all but sure my dagger was a 

feint 
Till the worm turn'd — not life shot 

up in blood. 
But death drawn in ; — (looking at the 

vial) this was no feint then ? no. 
But can I swear to that, had she but 

given 
Plain answer to plain query ? nay, 

methinks 
Had she but bow'd herself to meet the 

wave 
Of humiliation, worshipt whom she 

loathed, 
I should have let her be, scorn'd her 

too much 
To harm her. Henry — Becket tells 

him this — 
To take my life might lose him 

Aquitaine. 
Too politic for that. Imprison me ? 
No, for it came to nothing — only a 

feint. 
Did she not tell me I was playing on 

her ? 
I'll swear to mine own self it was a 

feint. 
Why should I swear, Eleanor, who 

am, or was, 
A sovereign power ? The King plucks 

out their eyes 
Who anger him, and shall not I, the 

Queen, 
Tear out her heart — kill, kill with 

knife or venom 
One of his slanderous harlots 1 "None 

of such ? " 
I love her none the more. Tut, the 

cliance gone, 
She lives — but not for him ; one point 

is gain'd. 
I, that thro' the Pope divorced King 

Louis, 
Scorninghis monkery, — I that wedded 

Henry, 
Honoring his manhood — will he not 

mock at me 
The jealotis fool balk'd of her will — 

with him f 



658 



BECKET. 



But lie and he must never meet again. 
Eeginald Fitzurse ! 

Re-enter Fitzurse. 
Fitzurse. Here, Madam, at your 

pleasure. 
Eleanor. My pleasure is to have a 

man about me. 
Why did you slink away so like a 

cur? 
Fitzurse. Madam, I am as much 

man as the King. 
Madam, I fear Church-censures like 

your King. 
Eleanor. He grovels to the Church 

when he's black-blooded, 
But kinglike fought the proud arch- 
bishop, — kinglike 
Defied the Pope, and, like his kingly 

sires, 
The Normans, striving still to break or 

bind 
The s^nritual giant with our island 

laws 
And customs, made me for the moment 

proud 
Ev'n of that stale Church-bond which 

link'd me with him 
To bear him kingly sons. I am not 

so sure 
But that I love him still. Thou as 

much man ! 
No more of that ; we will to France 

and be 
Beforehand with the King, and brew 

from out 
This Godstow-Becket intermeddling 

such 
A strong hate-philtre as may madden 

him — madden 
Against his priest beyondall hellebore. 

ACT V. 

SCENE I. — Castle in Normandy. 
King's Chamber. 

Henry, Roger of York, Foliot, 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. 

Roger of York. Nay, nay, my liege. 
He rides abroad with armed followers. 
Hath broken all his promises to thy- 
self, 
Cursed and anathematized us ri2;ht 

and left, 
Stirr'd up a party there against j^our 

son — 
Henry. Roger of York, you always 

hated him. 
Even when you both were boys at 

Theobald's. 
Roger of York. I always hated 

boundless- arrogance. 
In mine own cause I strove against 

him there, 



And in thy cause I strive against him 
noAv. 
Henry. I cannot think he moves 
against my son, 

Knowing right well with what a ten- 
derness 

He loved my son. 

Roger of York. Before you made 
him king. 

But Becket ever moves against a king. 

The Church is all — the crime to be a 
king. 

TVe trust your Royal Grace, lord of 
more land 

Than anj' crown in Europe, will not 
yield 

To lay your neck beneath your citi- 
zens' heel. 
Henry. Not to a Gregory of my 

throning ! No. 
Foliot. My royal liege, in aiming at 
your love, 

It may be sometimes I have over- 
shot 

My duties to our Holy Mother Church, 

Tho' all the world allows I fall no 
inch 

Behind this Becket, rather go be^'ond 

In scourgings, macerations, mortify- 
ings, 

Fasts, disciplines that clear the spir- 
itual e3'e, 

And break the soul from earth. Let 
all that be. 

I boast not : but you know thro' all 
this quarrel 

I still have cleaved to the crown, in 
hope the crown 

Would cleave to me that but obey'd 
the crown, 

Crowning yonr son ; for which our 
loyal service, 

And since we likewise swore to obey 
the customs, 

York and myself, and our good Salis- 
bury here. 

Are pusli'd from out communion of 
the Church. 
Jocelyn of Salisbtiry. Becket hath 
trodden on us like worms, mj- 
liege ; 

Trodden one half dead ; one half, but 
half-alive. 

Cries to the King. 

Henry (aside). Take care o' thyself, 

O King. 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. Being so crush'd 
and so humiliated 

We scarcely dare to bless the food we 
eat 

Because of Becket. 

Henry. What would ye have me do? 

Roger of York. Summon j-our 

barons ; take their counsel : yet 

I know — could swear — as long as 
Becket breathes, 



BECKET. 



659 



Your Grace will never have one quiet 

hour. 
Henrij. What ? . . . Ay . . . but 

pray you do not work upon 

me. 
I see your drift ... it may be so . . . 

and yet 
You know me easily anger'd. Will 

you hence ? 
He shall absolve you . . . you shall 

have redress. 
I have a dizzying hcadaclie. Let me 

rest. 
I'll call you by and by. 

\_Exeunt Roger of Yoi-k, Foliot, 

and Jocelyn of Salisbury. 
Would he were dead ! I have lost all 

love for him. 
If God would take him in some sud- 
den way — 
Would lie were dead. \_Lies down. 

PcKje (futerinr/). My liege, the 

Queen of England. 
Henry. God's eyes ! [Starting tip. 

Enter Eleanor. 
Eleanor. Of England ? Say of 

Aquitaine. 
I am no Queen of England. I had 

dream'd 
I was the bride of England, and 

a queen. 
Henry. And, — while you dream'd 

you were the bride of Eng- 
land, — 
Stirring her baby-king against me ? 

ha! 
Eleanor. The brideless Becket is 

th}^ king and mine : 
I will go live and die in Aquitaine. 
Henry. Except I claiJ thee into 

prison here. 
Lest thou shouldst play the wanton 

there again. 
Ha, you of Aquitaine ! O you of 

Aquitaine ! 
You were but Aquitaine to Louis — 

no wife ; 
You are only Aquitaine to me — no 

wife. 
Eleanor. And why, my lord, should 

I be wife to one 
That only wedded me for Aquitaine ? 
Yet this no wife — her six and thirty 

sail 
Of Provence blew you to your Eng- 
lish throne ; 
And this no wife has borue you four 

brave sons. 
And one of them at least is like to 

prove 
Bigger in our small world than thou 

art. 
Henry. Ay — 

Richard, if he be mine — I hope him 

mine. 



But thou art like enough to make him 
thine. 
Eleanor. Becket is like enough to 

make all his. 
Henry. Methou^ht I had recover'd 
of the Becket, 
That all was j^laned and bevell'd 

smooth again, 
Save from some hateful cantrip of 
thine own. 
Eleanor. I will go live and die in 
Aquitaine. 
I dream'd I was the consort of a 

king. 
Not one whose back his priest has 
broken. 
Henry. What ! 

Is the end come ? You, will j'ou crown 

my foe 
My victor in mid-battle ? I will be 
Sole master of my house. The end is 

mine. 
What game, what juggle, what devilry 

are you playing ? 
Why do you thrust this Becket on me 
again ■? 
Eleanor. AVhy 1 for I am true wife, 
and have my fears 
Lest Becket thrust you even from 

your throne. 
Do you know this cross, my liege ? 
Henrij (turning his head). Away! 

Not I. 
Eleanor. Not ev'n the central dia- 
mond, worth, I think, 
Half of the Antioch whence I had it. 
Henry. That 7 

Eleanor. I gave it to you, and you 
your paramour ; 
She sends it back, as being dead to 

earth. 
So dead henceforth to you. 

Henry. Dead ! you have murder 'd 
her, 
Found out her secret bower and miir- 
der'd her. 
Eleanor. Your Becket knew the 

secret of your bower. 
Henry (calling out). Ho there ! thy 

rest of life is hopeless prison. 
Eleanor. And what would my own 
Aquitaine say to that ■? 
First, free thy captive from her hope- 
less prison. 
Henry. O devil, can I free her from 

tlie grave "? 
Eleanor. You are too tragic : both 
of us are players 
In such a comedy as our court of 

Provence 
Had laugh'd at. That's a delicate 

Latin lay 
Of Walter ]Map : the lady holds the 

cleric 
Lovelier than any soldier, his poor 
tonsure 



660 



BECKET. 



A crown of Empire. Will you have 
it again ? 
\_Offering the cross. He dashes it 
down. 
St. Cupid, that is too irreverent. 
Then mine once more. (Puts it on.) 

Your cleric hath your lady. 
Nay, what uncomely faces, could he 

see you ! 
Foam at the mouth because King 

Thomas, lord 
Not only of your vassals but 

amours, 
Thro' chastest honor of the Decalogue 
Hath used the full authority of his 

Church 
To put her into Godstow nunnery. 
Henrij. To put her into Godstow 
nunnery ! 
He dared not — liar! yet, yet I 

remember — 
I do remember. 

He bade me put her into a nunnery — 
Into Godstow, into Hellstow, Devil- 
stow ! 
The Church ! the Church ! 
God's eyes ! I would the Church 
were down in hell ! \_E.vit. 

Eleanor. Aha ! 

Enter the four Knights. 
Fitzurse. What made the King cry 

out so furiously ? 
Eleanor. Our Becket, who will not 
absolve the Bishops. 
I think ye four have cause to love 
this Becket. 
Fitzurse. I hate him for his inso- 
lence to all. 
De Trac}/. And I for his insolence 

to thee. 
De Brito. I hate him for I hate 
him is my reason, 
And yet I hate him for a hypocrite. 
De Morrille. I do not love him, for 
he did his best 
To break the barons, and now braves 
the King. 
Eleanor. Strike, then, at once, the 
King would have him — See ! 
He-enter Henry. 
Henry. No man to love me, honor 
me, obey me ! 
Sluggards and fools ! 
The slave that eat my bread has 

kick'd his King ! 
The dog I cramm'd with dainties wor- 
ried me ! 
The fellow that on a lame jade came 

to court, 
A ragged cloak for saddle — he, he, 

he. 
To shake my throne, to push into my 

chamber — 
My bed, where ev'n the slave is pri- 
vate — he — 



I'll have her out again, he shall ab- 
solve 
The bishops — they but did my will 

— not you — 

Sluggards and fools, why do you stand 

and stare ? 
You are no king's men — you — you 

— you are Becket's men. 
Down with King Henry ! up with the 

Archbishop ! 
Will no man free me from this pesti- 
lent priest ? l_Exit. 
[ The Knights dra2v their swords. 
Eleanor. Are ye king's men ? I am 

king's woman, I. 
The Knights. King's men! King's 
men ! 



SCENE II. 

A Room in Canterbury Monas- 
tery. 

Becket and John of Salisbury. 

Becket. York said so ? 

John of Salisburi/. Yes : a man may 

take good counsel 
Ev'n from his foe. 

Becket. York will say anything. 
What is he saying now ? gone to the 

King 
And taken our anathema with him. 

York ! 
Can the King de-anathematize this 

York ? 
John of Salisburi/. Thomas, I would 

thou hadstreturn'd to England, 
Like some wise prince of this world 

from his wars, 
AVith more of olive-branch and am- 
nesty' 
For foes at home — thou hast raised 

tlie world against thee. 
Becket. Why, John, my kingdom is 

not of this world. 
John of Salisburi/. If it were more 

of this world it might be 
More of the next. A policy of wise 

pardon 
Wins liere as well as there. To bless 

thine enemies 

Becket. Ay, mine, not Heaven's, 
John of Salisburi/. And may there 

not be something 
Of this world's leaven in thee too, 

when crying 
On Holy Church to thunder out her 

rights 
And thine own wrong so pitilessly ? 

Ah, Thomas, 
The liglitnings that we think are only 

Heaven's 
Flash sometimes out of earth against 

the heavens. 



BECKET. 



661 



The soldier, when he lets his whole 

self go 
Lost in the common good, the com- 
mon wrong. 
Strikes truest ev'n for his own self. 

I crave 
Thy pardon — I have still thy leave 

to S2)eak. 
Thou hast waged God's war against 

the King ; and yet 
We are self-uncertain creatures, and 

we may, 
Yea, even when we know not, mix our 

spites 
And private hates with our defence of 

Heaven. 

Enter Edward Geim. 

Becket. Thou art but yesterday 
from Cambridge, Grim ; 
What say ye there of Becket 1 

Grim. I believe him 

The bravest in our roll of Primates 

down 
From Austin — there are some — for 
there are men 

Of canker'd j udgment everywhere 

Becket. ^ Who hold 

With York, with York against me. 

Grim. Well, my lord, 

A stranger monk desires access to you. 

Becket. York against Canterbury', 

York against God ! 

I am open to him. \_Exit Grim. 

Eyiter Rosamund as a Monk. 

Rosamund. Can I speak with you 
Alone, my father 1 

Becket. Come you to confess ? 
Rosamund. Not now. 
Becket. Then speak; this is my 
other self, 
Who like my conscience never lets 
me be. 
Rosamund {throwing back the cowl). 
I know him ; our good John of 
Salisbury. 
Becket. Breaking already from thy 
novitiate 
To plunge into this bitter world 

again — 
These wells of Marah. I am grieved, 

my daughter. 
I thought that I had made a peace for 
thee. 
Rosamund. Small peace was mine 
in my novitiate, father. 
Thro' all closed doors a dreadful 

whisper crept 
That thou wouldst excommunicate the 

King. 
I could not eat, sleep, pray : I had 

with me 
The monk's disguise thou gavest me 
for my bower : 



I think our Abbess knew it and 

allow'd it. 
I fled, and found thy name a charm to 

get me 
Food, roof, and rest. I met a robber 

once, 
I told him I was bound to see the 

Archbishop ; 
" Pass on," he said, and in thy name 

I pass'd 
From house to house. In one a son 

stone-blind 
Sat by his mother's hearth : he had 

gone too far 
Into the King's own woods ; and the 

poor mother, 
Soon as she learnt I was a friend of 
i thine. 

Cried out against the cruelty of the 

King. 
I said it was the King's courts, not 

the King; 
But she would not believe me, and 

she wish'd 
The Church were King : she had seen 

the Archbishop once. 
So mild, so kind. The people love 

thee, father. 
Becket. Alas! when I was Chancel- 
• lor to the King, 

I fear I was as cruel as the King. 
Rosamund. Cruel? Oh, no — it is 

the law, not he ; 
The customs of the realm. 

Becket. The customs ! ciistoms ! 

Rosamund. My lord, you have not 

excommunicated him ( 
Oh, if you have, absolve him ! 

Becket. Daughter, daughter. 

Deal not with things you know not. 

Rosa7nund. I know him. 

Then you have done it, and I call i/ou 

cruel. 
John of Salisbury. No, daughter, 

you mistake our good Arch- 
bishop ; 
For once in France the King had been 

so liarsh. 
He thought to excommunicate him — 

Thomas, 
You could not — old affection mas- 
ter 'd you, 
You falter'd into tears. 

Rosamund. God bless him for it. 
Becket. Nay, make me not a 

woman, John of Salisburj-, 
Nor make me traitor to my holy 

office. 
Did not a man's voice ring along the 

aisle, 
"The King is sick and almost unto 

death." 
How could I excommunicate him 

then ? 
Rosamund. And wilt thou excom- 
municate him now 1 



662 



BECKET. 



Becket. Daughter, my time is short, 
I shall not do it. 
And were it longer — well — I should 
not do it. 
Bosamund. Thanks in this life, and 

in the life to come. 
Becket. Get thee back to thy nun- 
nery with all haste ; 
Let this be thy last trespass. But 

one question — 
How fares thy pretty boy, the little 

Geoffrey ? 
No fever, cough, croup, sickness ? 

Rosamund. No, but saved 

From all that by our solitude. The 

plagues 
That smite the city spare the soli- 
tudes. 
Becket. God save him from all 
sickness of the soul ! 
Thee too, thy solitude among thy 

nuns, 
May that save thee ! Doth he re- 
member me ^ 
Rosamund. I warrant Iiim. 
Becket. He is marvellously like 

thee. 
Rosamund. Liker the King. 
Becket. No, daughter. 

Rosamund. Ay, but wait 

Till his nose rises ; he will be very 
king. 
Becket. Ev'n so : but think not of 

the King : farewell ! 
Rosamund. My lord, the city is 

full of armed men. 
Becket. Ev'n so : farewell ! 
Rosamund. I will but pass to ves- 
pers, 
And breathe one prayer for my liege- 
lord the King, 
His child and mine own soul, and so 
return. 
Becket. Fray for me too : much 
need of prayer have I. 

[Rosamund kneels and goes. 
Dan John, how much we lose, we celi- 
bates. 
Lacking the love of woman and of 
child. 
John of Salisburi/. More gain than 
loss ; for of your wives you 
shall 
Find one a slut whose fairest linen 

seems 
Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it 

— one 
So charged with tongue, that every 

thread of thought 
Is broken ere it joins — a shrew to 

boot. 
Whose evil song far on into the night 
Thrills to the topmost tile — no hope 

but death ; ■ 
One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the 
hearth ; 



And one that being thwarted ever 

swoons 
And weeps herself into the place of 

power; 
And one an uxor pauperis Ibi/ci. 
So rare the household honeymaking 

bee, 
Man's help ! but we, we have the 

Blessed Virgin 
For worship, and our Mother Church 

for bride ; 
And all the souls we saved and . 

father'd here 
Will greet us as our babes in Paradise. 
What noise was that ? she told us of 

arm'd men 
Here in the city. Will you not with- 
draw ? 
Becket. I once was out with Henry 

in the days 
When Henry loved me, and we came 

upon 
A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so still 
I reach'd my hand and touch'd ; she 

did not stir; 
The snow had frozen round her, and 

she sat 
Stone-dead upon a heap of ice-cold 

eggs. 
Look ! iiow this love, this mother, 

runs thro' all 
The world God made — even the 

beast — the bird ! 
John of Salisbury. Ay, still a lover 

of the beast and bird ? 
But these arm'd men — will you not 

hide yourself 1 
Perchance the fierce De Brocs from 

Saltwood Castle, 
To assail our Holy Mother lest she 

brood 
Too long o'er this hard egg, the world, 

and send 
Her whole heart's heat into it, till it 

break 
Into young angels. Pray you, hide 

yourself. 
Becket. Tiiere was a little fair- 

hair'd Norman maid 
Lived in my mother's house : if Rosa- 
mund is 
The world's rose, as her name imports 

her — she 
Was the world's lily. 

John of Salisburi/. Ay, and what of 

her? 
Becket. She died of leprosy. 
John of Salisburi/. I know not why 
You call these old things back again, 

my lord. 
Becket. The drowning man, they 

say, remembers all 
The chances of his life, just ere he dies. 
John of Salisburi/. Ay — but these 

arm'd men — will you drown 

yourself? 



BECK^: 



663 



He loses half the meed of martyr- 
dom 
Who will be martyr when he might 
escape. 
Becket. What day of the week? 

Tuesday 1 
John of Salisbui-i/. Tuesday, my 

lord. 
Becket. On a Tuesday was I born, 
and on a Tuesday 
Baptized ; and on a Tuesday did I fly 
Forth from Northampton ; on a Tues- 
day pass'd 
From England into bitter banish- 
ment ; 
On a Tuesday at Pontigny came to 

me 
The ghostly warning of my martyr- 
dom ; 
On a Tuesday from mine exile I re- 
turn 'd. 

Arid on a Tuesday 

• [Tracy enters, then Fitzurse, De 
Brito, and De Morville. Monks 
following. 

— on a Tuesday Tracy ! 

\_A long silence, broken hi/ Fitzurse 
saying, contemptuouslij, 
God help thee ! 

John of Salisbury (aside). How the 
good Archbishop reddens ! 
He never yet could brook the note of 
scorn. 
Fitzurse. My lord, we bring a mes- 
sage from the King 
Beyond the water ; will you have it 

alone. 
Or with these listeners near you ? 
Becket. As you will. 

Fitzurse. Nay, as you will. 
Becket. Nay, as you will. 

John (f Salisbury. Why then 

Better perhaps to speak with them 

apart. 
Let us withdraw. 

[All go out except the four Knights 
and Becket. 
Fitzurse. We are all alone with 
him. 
Shall I not smite him with liis own 
cross-staff ? 
De J\forville. No, look ! the door is 

open : let him be. 
Fitzurse. The King condemns your 

excommunicating 

Becket. This is no secret, but a 
public matter. 
In here again ! 

[John of Salisbury and Monks 
return. 
Now, sirs, the King's commands ! 
Fitzurse. The King beyond the 
water, thro' our voices, 
Commands you to be dutiful and leal 
To your young King on this side of 
the water, 



Not scorn him for the foibles of his 
youth. 

What! you would make his corona- 
tion void 

By cursing those who crown'd him. 
Out upon you ! 
Becket. Keginald, all men know I 
loved the Prince. 

His father gave him to my care, and I 

Became his second father : he had his 
faults, 

For which I would have laid my own 
life down 

To help him from them, since indeed 
I loved him, 

And love him next after my lord his 
father. 

Rather than dim the splendor of his 
crown 

I fain would treble and quadruple it 

With revenues, realms, and golden 
provinces 

So that were done in equity. 

Fitzurse. You have broken 

Your bond of peace, your treaty with 
the King — 

Wakening 5uch brawls and loud dis- 
turbances 

In England, that he calls you oversea 

To answer for it in his Norman 
courts. 
Becket. Prate not of bonds, for 
never, oh, never again 

Shall the waste voice of the bond- 
breaking sea 

Divide me from the mother church of 
England, 

My Canterbury. Loud disturbances ! 

Oh, ay — the bells rang out even to 
deafening. 

Organ and pipe, and dulcimer, chai\ts 
and hymns 

In all the churches, trumpets in the 
halls. 

Sobs, laughter, cries : they spread 
their raiment down 

Before me — would have made my 
pathway flowers, 

Save that it was mid-winter in the 
street, 

But full mid-summer in those honest 
hearts. 
Fitzurse. The King commands you 
to absolve the bishops 

Whom you have excommunicated. 
Becket. I > 

Not I, the Pope. Ask him for absolu- 
tion. 
Fitzur.se. But you advised the Pope. 
Becket. And so I did. 

They have but to submit. 

The Four Knights. The King com- 
mands you. 

We are all King's men. 

Becket. King's men at least should 
know 



664 



BECKET. 



Tliat their own King closed with me 
last Juh' 

That I should pass the censures of 
the Church 

On those that crown'd young Henry 
in this realm, 

And trampled on the rights of Can- 
terbury. 
Fitziirse. What! dare you charge 
the King with treachery ? 

He sanction thee to excommunicate 

The prelates whom he chose to crown 
his son ! 
Becket. 1 spake no word of treach- 
ery, Reginald. 

But for the truth of this I make appeal 

To all the archbishops, bishops, pre- 
lates, barons, 

Monks, kniglits, five hundred, that 
were there and heard. 

Nay, j'ou yourself were there: you 
heard yourself. 
Fitziirse. I was not there. 
Becket. I saw you there. 

Fitzurse. I was not. 

Becket. You were. I never forget 

anything. 
Fitzurse. He makes the King a 
traitor, me a liar. 

How long shall we forbear him 1 
John of Salishuri/ (draiciny Becket 
aside). my good lord. 

Speak with them privately on this 
hereafter. 

You see they have been revelling, 
and I fear 

Are braced and brazen'd up with 
Christmas wines 

For any murderous brawl. 

Becket. And yet they prate 

Of mine, my brawls, when those, that 
name themselves 

Of the King's part, have broken down 
our barns, 

Wasted our diocese, outraged our ten- 
ants. 

Lifted our produce, driven our clerics 
out — 

Why they, your friends, these ruffians, 
the De Brocs, 

They stood on Dover beach to mur- 
der me, 

They slew my stags in mine own manor 
here. 

Mutilated, poor brute, my sumpter- 
mule, 

Plunder'd the vessel full of Gascon 
wine, 

The old King's present, carried off the 
casks, 

Kill'd half the crew, dungeon'd the 
other half 

In Pevensey Castle 

De Morville. Why not rather then. 

If this be so, complain to your young 
King, 



Not punish of your own authority ? 
Becket. Mine enemies barr'd all ac- 
cess to the boy. 
They knew he loved me. 
Hugh, Hugh, how proudly 30U exalt 

your head ! 
Nay, when they seek to overturn our 

rights, 
I ask no leave of king, or mortal man, 
To set them straight again. Alone I 

do it. 
Give to the King the things that are 

the King's, 
And those of God to God. 

Fitzurse. Threats ! threats ! 

ye hear him. 
What ! will he excommunicate all the 

world ? 
[The Knights come round Becket. 
iJe Tracy. He shall not. 
iJe Britcj. Well, as yet 

— I should be grateful — 
He hath not excommunicated me. ■ 
Becket. Because tliou wast born ex- 
communicate. 
I never spied in thee one gleam of 

grace. 
De Brito. Your Christian's Cliris- 

tian charity. 

Becket. By St. Denis 

De Brito. A3-, by St. Denis, now will 

he flame out. 
And lose his head as old St. Denis 

did. 
Becket. Ye think to scare me from 

my loyalty 
To God and to the Holy Father. 

No! 
Tho' all the swords in England flash'd 

above me 
Eeady to fall at Henry's word or 

yours — 
Tho' all the loud-lung'd trumpets 

upon earth 
Blared from the heights of all the 

thrones of her kings. 
Blowing the world against me, I would 

stand 
Clothed with the full authority' of 

Rome, 
Mail'd in the perfect panoply of faith. 
First of the foremost of their files, 

who die 
For God, to people heaven in the great 

day 
When God makes up his jewels. Once 

I fled — 
Never again, and you — I marvel at 

you — 
Ye know what is between us. Ye 

have sworn 
Yourselves my men when I was Chan- 
cellor — 
My vassals — and yet threaten j'our 

Archbisliop 
In his own house. 



BECKET. 



665 



Kniyhts. Nothing can be between iis 
That goes against our fealty to the 
King. 
Fitzurse. And in his name we charge 
you that ye keep 
This traitor from escaping. 

Becket. Kest you easy, 

i'^or I am easy to keep. I shall not tly. 
Here, here, here will you find me. 

De Morville. Know you not 

You have spoken to the peril of your 
life? 
Becket. As I shall speak again. 
Fitzurse, De Tracij, andDe Brito. To 

arms ! 
\_They rush out, De Morville lingers. 
Becket. De Morville, 

I had thought so well of you ; and 

even now 
You seem the least assassin of the 

four. 
Oh, do not damn yourself for com- 
pany! 
Is it too late for me to save your soul ? 
I pray you for one moment stay and 
speak. 
De Morville. Becket, it is too late. 

[Exit. 
Becket. Is it too late ? 

Too late on earth may be too soon in 
hell. 
Knights (in the distance). Close the 
great gate — ho, there — upon 
the town. 
Becket's Retainers. Shut the hall- 
doors. \_A pause. 
Becket. You hear them, brother 
John ; 
Why do you stand so silent, brother 
John ? 
John of Salisbury. For I was mus- 
ing on an ancient saw, 
Suaviter in modo,fortiter in re. 
Is strength less strong when hand-in- 
hand with grace 7 
Gratior in pulchro corpore virtus. 

Thomas, 
Why should you heat yourself for 
such as these 1 
Becket. Methought I answer'd mod- 
erately enough. 
John of Salisburij. As one that 
blows the coal to cool the fire. 
My lord, I marvel why you never lean 
On any man's advising but your own. 
Becket. Is it so, Dan John ? well, 

what should I have done ? 
John of Salisbury. You should have 
taken counsel with your friends 
Before these bandits brake into your 

presence. 
They seek — you make — occasion for 
your death. 
Becket. My counsel is already taken, 
John. 
I am prepared to die. 



John of Salisbury. We are sinners 

ail. 
The best of all not all-i^repared to die. 
Becket. God's will be done ! 
John of Salisbury. Ay, well. God's 

will be done ! 

Griji (re-entering). 

Grim. My lord, the knights arc- 
arming in the garden 
Beneath the sycamore. 

Becket. Good ! let them arm. 

Grim. And one of the De Brocs is 
with them, Robert, 
The apostate monk that was with 

llandulf here. 
He knows the twists and turnings of 
the place. 
Becket. No fear ! 
Grim. No fear, my lord. 

[Crashes on the hall-doors. The 
Monks flee. 
Becket {risi7ig). Our dovecote flown ! 
I cannot tell why monks should all 
be cowards. 
John of Salislmry. Take refuge in 

your own cathedral, Thomas. 
Becket. Do they not fight the Great 
Fiend day by day ? 
Valor and holy life should go together. 
Why should all monks be cowards '? 

John of Salisbury. Are they so 7 

I gay, take refuge in your own cathe- 
dral. 
Becket. Ay, but I told them I would 

wait them here. 
Grim. May they not say you dared 
not show yourself 
In your old place 1 and vespers are 

beginning. 
[Bell rings for vespers till end of scene. 
You should attend the office, give 

them heart. 
They fear you slain : they dread they 
know not what. 
Becket. Ay, monks, not men. 
Grim. I am a monk, my lord. 
Perhaps, my lord, you wrong us. 
Some would stand by you to the death. 
Becket. Your pardon. 

John of Salisbury. He said, "At- 
tend the office." 
Becket. Attend the office 1 

Why then — The Cross ! — who bears 

my Cross before me ? 
Methought they would have brain'd 
me with it, John. 

[Grim takes it. 
Grim. I ! Would that I could bear 

thy cross indeed ! 
Becket. The Mitre ! 
John of Salisbury. Will j'ou wear 
it ? — there ! 

[Becket j^uts on the mitre. 
Becket. The Pall ! 



666 



BECKET. 



I go to meet my King ! 

\Pxds on the pall. 
Grim. To meet the King 1 

[ Crashes on the doors as they go out. 
John of Salisburi/. Wliy do you 
move with such a stateliness 1 
Can you not hear them yonder like a 

storm, 
Battering the doors, and breaking 
tliro' the walls ? 
Becket. Why do the heathen rage 1 
My two good friends, 
What matters niurder'd here or mur- 

der'd there "? 
And yet my dream foretold my mar- 
tyrdom 
In mine own church. It is God's will. 

Go on. 
Nay, drag me not. We must not seem 
to fly. 

SCENE III. — North Transept of 
Canterbury Cathedral. On the 
right hand a flight of steps 

LEADING TO THE ChOIR, ANOTHER 
FLIGHT ON THE LEFT, LEADING TO 

THE North Aisle. Winter af- 
ternoon SLOWLY darkening. LoW 
THUNDER NOW AND THEN OF AN AP- 
PROACHING STORM. Monks heard 

CH.A.NTING THE SERVICE. ROSA- 

MUND KNEELING. 

Rosamund. O blessed saint, glori- 
ous Benedict, — 

These arm'd men in the city, these 
fierce faces — 

Thy holy follower founded Canter- 
bury — 

Save that dear head which now is 
Canterbury, 

Save him, he saved my life, he saved 
my child. 

Save him, his blood would darken 
Henry's name ; * 

Save him till all as saintly as thyself 

He miss the searching flame of purga- 
tory, and pass at once perfect 
to Paradise. 

\_Noise of steps and voices in the cloisters. 

Hark ! Is it they ? Coming ! He is 
not here — 

Not yet, thank heaven. O save him ! 
[ Goes up steps leading to choir. 

Becket (entering, forced along by John 

of Salisbury and Grim). 

Becket. No, I tell you ! 

I cannot bear a hand upon my person. 

Why do you force me thus against 

my will ? 

Grim. My lord, we force you from 

your enemies. 
Becket. As you would force a king 

from being crown'd. 
John of Salisbury. We must not 
force the crown of martrydom. 



\_Service stops. Monks come down 
from the stairs that lead to the 
choir. 
Monks. Here is the great Arch- 
bishop ! He lives ! he lives ! 
Die with him, and be glorified to- 
gether. 
Becket. Together ? . . . get you 

back ! go on with the ofiice. 
Monks. Come, then, with us to ves- 
pers. 
Becket. How can I come 

When you so block the entry 1 Back, 

I say ! 
Go on with the ofiice. Shall not 

Heaven be served 
Tho' earth's last earthquake clash'd 

the minster-bells. 
And the great deeps were broken up 

again. 
And hiss'd against the sun ? 

[Noise in the cloisters. 
Monks. The murderers, hark ! 

Let us hide ! let us hide ! 

Becket. What do these people fear ? 
Monks. Those arm'd men in the 

cloister. 
Becket. Be not such cravens ! 

I will go out and meet them. 

Grim and others. Shut the doors ! 
We will not have him slain before 
our face. 
[_They close the doors of the transejit. 
Knocking. 
Fly, fiy, my lord, before they burst 
the doors ! ^Knocking. 

Becket. Why, these are our own 
monks who f ollow'd us ! 
And will you bolt them out, and have 

them slain ? 
Undo the doors : the church is not a 

castle : 
Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are 

you deaf 1 
What, have I lost authority among 

you"? 
Stand by, make way ! 

I0]>e7is the doors. Enter Monks 
from cloister. 
Come in, my friends, come in ! 
Nay, faster, faster ! 

Monks. Oh, my lord Archbishop, 
A score of knights all arm'd with 

swords and axes — 
To the choir, to the choir ! 

[Monks divide, part flying by the 
stairs on the right, part by those 
on the left. The rusk of these last 
bears Becket cdo7ig with them 
some way up the steps, where he 
is left standing (done. 
Becket. Shall I too pass to the 
choir. 
And die upon the Patriarchal throne 
Of all my predecessors ? 

John of Salisbury. No, to the crypt ! 



BECKET. 



667 



Twenty steps down. Stumble not in 

the darkness, 
Lest they should seize thee. 

Crrim. To the crypt ? no — no, 

To the chapel of St. Blaise beneath 
the roof ! 
John of Salisburi/ (pointinrj upward 

and downward). That way, or 

this ! Save thyself either way. 
Becket. Oh, no, not either way, nor 
any way 
Save by that way which leads thro' 

night to light. 
Xot twenty steps, but one. 
And fear not I should stumble in the 

darkness. 
Nor tho' it be their hour, the power of 

darkness. 
But ray hour too, the power of light 

in darkness ! 
I am not in the darkness but the light. 
Seen by the Church in Heaven, the 

Church on earth — 
The power of life in death to make 
her free ! 
\_Enter the four Knights. John of 
Salisbury yf/es to the altar of St. 
Benedict. 
Fltzurse. Here, here. King's men ! 
[ Catches holdofthe last f i^ ingMonk.. 
Where is the traitor Becket 1 
Monk. I am not he ! I am not he, 
my lord. 
I am not he indeed ! 

Fltzurse. Hence to the fiend ! 

\_Pushes him away. 

Where is this treble traitor to the King? 

De Tracjj. Where is the Archbishop, 

Thomas Becket '? 
Becket. Here. 

No traitor to the King, but Priest of 

God, 
Primate of England. 

\_Descending into the transept. 

I am he ye seek. 

What would ye have of me ? 

Fitzurse. Your life. 

De Tracij. Your life. 

De Morville. Save that you will 

absolve the bishops. 
Becket. Never, — 

Except they make submission to the 

Church. 
You had my answer to that cry be- 
fore. 
De Morville. Why, then you are a 

dead man ; flee i 
Becket. I will not. 

I am readier to be slain, than thou to 

slay. 
Hugh, I know well thou hast but half 

a heart 
To bathe this sacred pavement with 

my blood. 
God pardon thee and these, but God's 
full curse 



Shatter you all to pieces if ye harm 
One of my flock ! 

Fitzurse. Was not the great gate 
shut ? 
They are thronging in to vespers — 

half the town. 
We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize him 

and carry him ! 
Come with us — nay — thou art our 
prisoner — come ! 
De Morville. Ay, make him prisoner, 
do not harm the man. 
[Fitzurse lays hold of the Arch- 
bishop's pall. 
Becket. Touch me not ! 
De Brito. How the good priest gods 
himself ! 
He is not yet ascended to the 
. Father. 
Fitzurse. I will not only touch, but 

drag thee hence. 
Becket. Tliou art my man, thou art 
my vassal. Away ! 
[Flings him off till he reels, almost 
to falling. 
De Tracy (lays hold of the pall). 
Come ; as he said, thou art our 
prisoner. 
Becket. Down ! 

[^Throws him headlong. 
Fitzurse (advances with drawn sicord). 
I told thee that I should remember 
thee! 
Becket. Profligate pander ! 
Fitzurse. Do you hear that ') strike, 
strike. 
\_Strikes off the Archbishop's mitre, 
and wounds him in the forehead. 
Becket {covers his eyes ivith his hand). 
I do commend my cause to God, the 

Virgin, 
St. Denis of France and St. Alphege 

of England, 
And all the tutelar Saints of Canter- 
bury. 
[Grim wraps his ai'ms about the 
Archbishop. 
Spare this defence, dear brother. 

[Tracy has arisen, and app>roaches, 

hesitatingly, with his sicord raised. 

Fitzurse. Strike him, Tracy ! 

Rosamund (rushing down steps from 

choir). No, No, No, No ! 
Fitzurse. This wanton here. De 
Morville, 
Hold her away. 

De Morville. I hold her. 
Rosamund {held back by De Morville, 
and stretching out her arms). 
Mercy, mercy, 
As you would hope for mercy. 

Fitzurse. Strike, I say. 

Grim. God, O noble knights, O 
sacrilege ! 
Strike our Archbishop in his own 
cathedral ! 



668 



BECKET. 



The Pope, the King, will curse vou — 

the whole world 
Abhor you ; ye will die the death of 

dogs ! 
J^Tay, nay, good Tracy. \_Lifts his arm. 
Fitzurse. Answer not, but strike. 
De Tracy. There is my answer 
then. 
[Sword falls on Grim's arm, and 
glances from it, wounding Becket. 
Grim. Mine arm is sever'd. 

I can no more — fight out the good 

fight — die 
Conqueror. 

\_Staggers into the chapel of St. 
Benedict. 
Becket {falling on his knees). At the 
right hand of Power — 
Power and great glory — for thy 

Church, Lord — 
Into Thy hands, O Lord — into Thy 
hands ! \_Sinks prone. 



De Brito. This last to rid thee of a 
world of brawls! [Kills him. 
The traitor's dead, and will arise no 
more. 
Fitzurse. Nay, have we still'd him ? 
"What ! the great Archbishop ! 
Does he breathe 1 No ? 

De Tracy. No, Reginald, he is dead. 

[Storm bursts.^ 

De Morville. Will the earth gape 

and swallow us 1 
De Brito. The deed's done. — 

Away ! 

[De Brito, De Tracy, Fitzurse, 
rush out, crying " King's men .' " 
De Morville follows slowly. 
Flashes of lightning thro' the 
Cathedral. Rosamund seen 
kneeling by the body of Becket. 

' A tremendous thujulerstorm actually 
broke over the Cathedral as the murderers 
were leaving it. 



ADDITIONAL, OCOASIOI^AL, AI^D 
DISCAEDED POEMS. 



[The pieces in this division include some early and occasional poems omitted by 
Mr. Tennyson from the latest edition of his collected works ; also some of his 
recent poems which do not appear in the author's edition.] 



THE RINGLET. 



I. 



" Your ringlets, your ringlets, 

That look so golden gay. 
If you will give me one, but one 

To kiss it night and day, 
Then never chilling touch of Time, 

Will turn it silver-gray ; 
And then shall I know it is all true 

gold 
To flame and sparkle and stream as of 

old, 
Till all the comets in heaven are cold. 

And all her stars decay." 
" Then take it, love, and put it by ; 
This cannot change, nor yet can I." 



" My ringlet, m}* ringlet, 

That art so golden-gay. 
Now never chilling touch of Time 

Can turn thee silver-gray; 
And a lad may wink, and a girl may 
hint. 

And a fool may say his say ; 
For my doubts and fears were all 

amiss, 
And I swear henceforth by this and 

this, 
That a doubt will only come for a kiss, 

And a fear to be kiss'd away." 
" Then kiss it, love, and put it by : 
If this can change, why so can I." 

II. 
1. 

O Ringlet, Ringlet, 

I kiss'd you night and day. 

And Ringlet, Ringlet, 
You still are golden-gay. 

But Ringlet, Ringlet, 



You should be silver-gray : 
For what is this which now I'm told, 
I that took you for true gold. 
She that gave you 's bought and sold, 
Sold, sold. 

2. 

O Ringlet, Ringlet, 

She blush'd a rosy red. 
When Ringlet, Ringlet, 

She dipt you from her head. 
And Ringlet, Ringlet, 

She gave you me, and said, 
" Come, kiss it, love, and put it by : 
If this can change, why so can I." 
O fie, you golden nothing, fie 
You golden lie. 



O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I count you much to blame, 

For Ringlet, Ringlet, 

You put me much to shame. 

So Ringlet, Ringlet, 
I doom you to the flame. 

For what is this which now I learn. 

Has given all my faith a turn ? 

Burn, you glossy heretic, burn, 
Burn, burn. 



SONG. 
Lady, let the rolling drums 
Beat to battle where thy warrior 
stands : 
Now thy face across his fancy 
comes. 
And gives the battle to his hands. 

Lady, let the trumpets blow. 
Clasp thy little babes about thy knee : 
Now their warrior father meets the 
foe. 
And strikes him dead for thine and 
thee. 



670 



TIMBUCTOO. 



SONG. 

Home they brought him slain with 
spears. 
They brought him home at even- 
fall : 
All alone she sits and hears 
Echoes in his empty hall, 
Sounding on the morrow. 

The sun peep'd in from open field. 
The boy began to leap and prance, 
Rode upon his father's lance, 

Beat upon his father's shield — 
" O hush, my joy, my sorrow." 



TIMBUCTOO.i 

" Deep in that lion-haunted inland lies 
A mystic city, goal of high emprise." 

— Chapman. 

I STOOD upon the Mountain which 

o'erlooks 
The narrow seas, whose rapid interval 
Parts Afric from green Europe, when 

the Sun 
Had fall'n below th' Atlantic, and 

above 
The silent heavens were blench'd with 

faery light, 
Uncertain whether faery light or 

cloud, 
Flowing Southward, and the chasms 

of deep, deep blue 
Slumber'd unfathomable, and the 

stars 
Were flooded over with clear glory 

and pale. 
I gazed upon the sheeny coast be- 
yond, 
There where the Giant of old Time 

infix'd 
The limits of his prowess, pillars high 
Long time erased from earth : even as 

the Sea 
When weary of wild inroad buildeth 

up 
Huge mounds whereby to stay his 

yeasty waves. 
And much I mused on legends quaint 

and old 
Which whilome won the. hearts of all 

on earth 
Toward their brightness, ev'n as flame 

draws air ; 
But had their being in the heart of 

men 
As air is th' life of flame : and thou 

wert then 
A center'd glory-circled memory, 
Divinest Atalantis, whom the waves 

' A Poem which obtained the Chancellor's 
Medal at the Cambridge Commencement, 
MDCCCXXIX. By A. Tennyson, of Trin- 
ity College. 



Have buried deep, and thou of later 

name. 
Imperial Eldorado, roof 'd with gold : 
Shadows to which, despite all shocks 

of change. 
All on-set of capricious accident. 
Men clung witli yearning hope which 

w'ould not die. 
As when in some great city w'here the 

walls 
Shake, and the streets with ghastly 

faces thronged. 
Do utter forth a subterranean voice. 
Among the inner columns far retired 
At midnight, in the lone Acropolis, 
Before the awful genius of the place 
Kneels the pale Priestess in deep 

faith, the while 
Above her head the weak lamj) dips 

and winks 
Unto the fearful summoning without: 
Nathless she ever clasps the marble 

knees, 
Bathes the cold hand with tears, and 

gazeth on 
Those eyes which wear no light but 

that wherewith 
Her phantasy informs them. 

Where are ye. 
Thrones of the Western wave, fair 

Islands green ? 
Wliere are your moonlight halls, your 

cedarn glooms, 
The blossoming abysses of your hills ? 
Your flowering caj^es, and your gold- 
sanded bays 
Blown round with happy airs of odor- 
ous winds ? 
Where are the infinite ways, which, 

seraph-trod, 
Wound through your great Elysian 

solitudes. 
Whose lowest deeps were, as with vis- 
ible love. 
Filled with Divine effulgence, circum- 

fused, 
Flowing between the clear and pol- 
ished stems. 
And ever circling round their emerald 

cones 
In coronals and glories, such as gird 
The unfading foreheads of the Saints 

in Heaven ? 
For nothing visible, they say, had 

birth 
In that blest ground, but it was played 

about 
With its peculiar glory. Then I 

raised 
My voice and cried, " Wide Afric, 

doth thy Sun 
Lighten, thy hills enfold a city as 

fair 
As those which starred the night o' 

the elder world ? 
Or is the rumor of thy Timbuctoo 



TIMBUCTOO. 



671 



A dream as frail as those of ancient 

time •? " 
A curve of whitening, flashing, 

ebbing light ! 
A rustling of white wings ! the bright 

descent 
Of a young Seraph ! and he stood be- 
side me 
There on the ridge, and looked into 

my face 
With his unutterable, shining orbs, 
So that with hasty motion I did veil 
My vision with both hands, and saw 

before me 
Such colored spots as dance athwart 

the eyes 
Of those that gaze ujion the noonday 

Sun. 
Girt with a zone of flashing gold be- 
neath 
His breast and compassed round about 

his brow 
With triple arch of everchanging 

bows, 
And circled with the glory of living 

light 
And alternation of all hues, he stood. 
" O child of man, why muse you 

here alone 
Upon the Mountain, on the dreams of 

old 
Which filled the earth with passing 

loveliness. 
Which flung strange music on the 

howling winds, 
And odors rapt from remote Para- 
dise '? 
Thy sense is clogged with dull mortal- 
ity : 
Open thine eyes and see." 

I looked, but not 
Upon his face, for it was wonderful 
AVith its exceeding brightness, and the 

light 
Of the great Angel Mind which 

looked from out 
The starry glowing of his restless 

eyes. 
I felt my soul grow might}^ and n\j 

spirit 
With supernatural excitation bound 
Within me, and my mental eye grew 

large 
With such a vast circumference of 

thought, 
That in my vanity I seemed to 

stand 
Upon the oiitward verge and bound 

alone 
Of full beatitude. Each failing 

sense, 
As with a momentary flash of light, 
Grew thrillingly distinct and keen. I 

saw 
The smallest grain that dappled the 

dark earth. 



The indistinctest atom in deep air. 

The Moon's white cities, and the opal 
width 

Of her small glowing lakes, her silver 
heights 

Unvisited with dew of vagrant cloud. 

And theunsounded,imdescendeddepth 

Of her black hollows. The clear 
galaxy 

Shorn of its hoary lustre, wonderful, 

Distinct and vivid with sharp points 
of light. 

Blaze witliin blaze, an unimagined 
depth 

And harmony of planet-girded suns 

And moon-encircled planets, wheel in 
wheel. 

Arched the wan sapphire. Nay — the 
hum of men 

Or other things talking in unknown 
tongues. 

And notes of busy life in distant 
worlds 

Beat like a far wave on my anxious 
ear. 
A maze of piercing, trackless, thrill- 
ing thoughts. 

Involving and embracing each with 
each. 

Rapid as fire, inextricably linked, 

Expanding momentl}' with every sight 

And sound which struck the palpi- 
tating sense. 

The issue of strong impulse, hurried 
through 

The riven rapt brain ; as when in some 
large lake 

From pressure of descendent crags, 
which lapse 

Disjointed, crumbling from their par- 
ent slope 

At slender interval, the level calm 

Is ridged with restless and increasing 
spheres 

Which break upon each other, each 
th' effect 

Of separate impulse, but more fleet 
and strong 

Than its precursor, till the e3-e in 
vain 

Amid the wild unrest of swimming 
shade 

Dappled with hollow and alternate 
rise 

Of interpenetrated arc, would scan 

Definite round. 

I know not if I shape 

These things with accurate similitude 

From visible objects, for but dimly 
now. 

Less vivid than a half-forgotten dream, 

The memory of that mental excel- 
lence 

Comes o'er me, and it may be I en- 
twine 

The indecision of my present mind 



672 



TIME UC TOO. 



With its past clearness, yet it seems 
to me 

As even then the torrent of quick 
thought 

Absorbed me from the nature of itself 

With its own lleetness. Where is he, 
that borne 

Adown the sloping of an arrowy 
stream. 

Could link his shallop to the fleeting 
edge. 

And muse midway n'ith philosophic 
calm 

Upon the wondrous laws which regu- 
late 

The fierceness of the bounding ele- 
ment "? 
My thoughts which long had grov- 
elled in the slime 

Of this dull world, like dusky worms 
which house 

Beneath unshaken waters, but at once 

Upon some earth-awakening day of 
Spring 

Do pass from gloom to glory, and 
aloft 

Winnow the purple, bearing on both 
sides 

Double display of star-lit wings, which 
burn 

Fan-like and fibred with intensest 
bloom ; 

Even so my thoughts ere while so low, 
now felt 

Unutterable buoyancy and strength 

To bear them upward through the 
trackless fields 

Of undefined existence far and free. 
Then first within the South me- 
thought I saw 

A wilderness of spires, and crystal pile 

Of rampart u^jon rampart, dome on 
dome, 

Illimitable range of battlement 

On battlement, and the Imperial 
height 

Of canopy o'ercanopied. 

Behind 

In diamond light up spring the daz- 
zling peaks 

Of Pyramids, as far surpassing earth's 

As heaven than earth is fairer. Each 
aloft 

Upon his narrowed eminence bore 
globes 

Of wheeling suns, or stars, or sem- 
blances 

Of either, showering circular abyss 

Of radiance. But the glory of the 
place 

Stood out a pillared front of burnished 
gold, 

Interminably high, if gold it were 

Or metal more ethereal, and beneath 

Two doors of blinding brilliance, where 
no gaze 



Might rest, stood open, and the eye 

could scan. 
Through length of porch and valve 

and boundless hall, 
Part of a throne of fiery flame, where- 

from 
The snowy skirting of a garment 

hung. 
And glimpse of multitude of multi- 
tudes 
That ministered around it — if I saw 
These things distinctly, for my human 

brain 
Staggered beneath the vision, and 

tliick night 
Came down upon my eyelids, and I 

fell. 
With ministering hand he raised me 

up: 
Then with a mournful and ineffable 

smile. 
Which but to look on for a moment 

filled 
My eyes with irresistible sweet tears. 
In accents of majestic melody. 
Like a swoln river's gushings in still 

night 
Mingled with floating music, thus he 

spake : 
" There is no mightier Spirit than 

I to sway 
The heart of man ; and teach him to 

attain 
By shadowing forth the Unattainable ; 
And step by step to scale that mighty 

stair 
Whose landing-place is wrapt about 

with clouds 
Of glory of heaven.i With earliest 

light of Spring, 
And in the glow of sallow Summer- 
tide, 
And in red Autumn when the winds 

are wild 
With gambols, and when full-voiced 

Winter roofs 
The headland with inviolate white 

snow, 
I play about his heart a thousand 

ways. 
Visit his eyes with visions, and his 

ears 
With harmonies of wind and wave and 

wood, — 
Of winds which tell of waters, and of 

waters 
Betraying the close kisses of the 

wind — 
And win him unto me : and few there 

be 
So gross of heart who have not felt 

and known 
A higher than they see : they with 

dim eyes 

1 "^Be ye perfect, even as your father in 
heaven is perfect." 



THE ''NOW" AND THE " IVHY:' 



673 



Behold me darkling. Lo ! I liave 

given thee 
To understand my presence, and to 

feel 
My fulness : I have filled thy lips 

with power. 
I have raised thee nigher to the 

spheres of heaven, 
Man's first, last home : and thou with 

ravished sense 
Listenest the lordly music flowing 

from 
The illimitable years. I am the 

Spirit, 
The permeating life which courseth 

through 
All th' intricate and labj'rintliine 

veins 
Of the great vine of Fable, which, 

outspread 
With gi'owth of shadowing leaf and 

clusters rare, 
Reacheth to every corner under 

heaven. 
Deep-rooted in the living soil of 

truth; 
So that men's hopes and fears take 

refuge in 
The fragrance of its complicated 

glooms. 
And cool impleached twilights. Child 

of man, 
Seest tliou yon river, whose translucent 

wave, 
Fortli issuing from the darkness, wind- 

etli through 
The argent streets o' the city, imaging 
The soft inversion of her tremulous 

domes. 
Her gardens frequent with the stately 

palm, 
Her pagods hung with music of sweet 

bells. 
Her obelisks of range'd chrysolite. 
Minarets and .towers ? Lo ! how he 

passeth by. 
And gulphs himself in sands, as not 

enduring 
To carry through the world those 

waves, which bore 
The reflex of my city in their depths. 
Oh city : oh latest throne ! where I 

was raised 
To be a mystery of loveliness 
Unto all eyes, the time is well-nigh 

come 
When I must render up this glorious 

home 
To keen Discovery ; soon yon brilliant 

towers 
Shall darken with the waving of her 

wand ; 
Darken and shrink and shiver into 

huts. 
Black specks amid a waste of dreary 

sand, 



Low-built, mud-walled, barbarian set- 
tlements. 

How changed from this fair city ! " 

Thus far the Spirit, 

Then parted heaven-ward on the 
wing ; and I 

Was left alone on Calpe, and the moon 

Had fallen from the night, and all was 
dark ! 



THE "HOW "AND THE "WHY." 



I AM any man's suitor. 
If any will be my tutor : 
Some say this life is pleasant. 

Some think it speedeth fast, 
In time there is no present. 
In eternity no future. 

In eternity no past. 
We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die. 
Who will riddle me the how and the 

why ? 

The bulrush nods imto its brother. 
The wheatears whisper to each other : 
What is it they say ? what do they 

there 1 
Why two and two make four 1 why 

round is not square ? 
Why the rock stands still, and the 

light clouds fly ? 

Why the heavy oak groans, and the 

white willows sigh 1 
Why deep is not high, and high is not 

deep 1 
Whether we wake, or whether we 

sleep ■? 
Whether we sleep, or whether we die ? 
How you are you ? why I am 1 1 
Who will riddle me the how and the 

why ? 

The world is somewhat ; it goes on 

somehow : 
But what is the meaning of then and 

now ? 
I feel there is something ; but how 

and what ? 
I know there is somewhat : but what 

and why ? 
I cannot tell if that somewhat be I. 

The little bird pipeth — " why ? 

why ? " 
In the summer woods when the sun 

falls low. 
And the great bird sits on the opposite 

bough, 
And stares in his face, and shouts 

" how ? how ? " 
And the black owl scuds down the 

mellow twilight. 
And chants " how ? how ? " the whole 

of the night. 



674 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE. 



Why the life goes when the blood is 

spilt ? 
What the life is ? where the soul 

may lie 1 
Why a church is with a steeple built : 
And a house with a chimney-pot ? 
Who will riddle me the how and the . 

what ■? 
Who will riddle me the what and 

the why ? 

THE BURIAL OF LOVE. 

His eyes in eclipse, 
Palecold his lips, 
The light of his hoi^es unfed. 
Mute his tongue. 
His bow unstrung 
With the tears he hath shed. 
Backward drooping his graceful head, 
Love is dead : 
His last arrow is sped ; 
He hath not another dart ; 
Go — carry him to his dark deathbed; 
Bury him in the cold, cold heart — 
Love is dead. 

Oh, truest love ! art thou forlorn, 
And unrevenged '? thy pleasant 
wiles 
Forgotten, and thine innocent 

joyi 
Shall hoUowhearted apathy, 
The cruelest form of perfect scorn, 
With languor of most hateful 
smiles, 

For ever write, 
In the withered light 
Of the tearless eye. 
An epitaph that all may spy ? 
No ! sooner she herself shall die. 

For her the showers shall not fall, 
Nor the round sun shine that shineth 

to all; 
Her light shall into darkness 

change ; 
For her the green grass shall not 

spring, 
Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet 

birds sing, 
Till love liave his full revenge. 



TO 



Sainted Juliet ! dearest name ! 
If to love be life alone, 
Divinest Juliet, 
I love thee, and live ; and yet 
Love unreturned is like the fragrant 
flame 
Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice 
Offered to gods upon an altar- 
throne ; 



My lieart is lighted at thine eyes, 
Changed into fire, and blown about 
with sighs. 



SONG. 



I' THE glooming light 
Of middle night 
So cold and white. 
Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning 
wave, 

Beside her are laid 
Her mattock and spade, 
For she had half delved her own deep 
grave. 

Alone she is there : 
The white clouds drizzle . her hair 
falls loose. 

Her shoulders are bare ; 
Her tears are mixed with the beaded 
dews. 



Death standeth by ; 
She will not die ; 
With glazc'd eye 
She looks at her grave : she cannot 
sleep ; 

Ever alone 

She maketli her moan : 
She cannot speak : slie can only weep. 

For she will not hope. 
The thick snow falls on her flake by 
flake, 

The dull wave mourns down 
the slope, 
The world will not change, and her 
heart will not break. 



SONG. 



The lintwhite and the throstlecock 
Have voices sweet and clear ; 

All in the bloome'd May. 
They from the blosmy brere 
Call to the fleeting year, 
If that he would them hear 

And stay. 
Alas ! that one so beautiful 
Should have so dull an ear. 



Fair year,fair j'ear, thy children call. 
But thou art deaf as death ; 
All in tlie bloomed May. 
When thy light perisheth 
That from thee issueth. 
Our life evanisheth : 

Oh ! stay. 
Alas ! that lips so cruel-dumb 
Should have so sweet a breath ? 



HERO TO LEANDER. 



675 



Fair year, with brows of royal love 
Thou comest, as a king, 

All in tlie bloomed May. 
Thy golden largess fling, 
And longer hear us sing ; 
Though thou art fleet of wing. 

Yet stay. 
Alas ! that eyes so full of light 
Should be so wandering ! 



Thy locks are all of sunny sheen 
In rings of gold yronne,i 

All in the bloomc'd May. 
We pri'thee pass not on ; 
If thou dost leave the sun, 
Delight is with thee gone. 

Oh! stay. 
Thou art the fairest of thy feres. 
We pri'thee pass not on. 



SONG. 



Every day hath its night : 

Every night its morn : 
Thorough dark and bright 
Winged hours are born; 
Ah ! Avelaway ! 
Seasons flower and fade ; 
Golden calm and storm 

Mingle day by day. 
There is no bright form 
Doth not cast a shade — 
Ah ! welaway ! 



When we laugh, and our mirth 

Apes the happy vein. 
We're so kin to earth, 

Pleasaunce fathers pain — 
Ah ! welaway ! 
Madness laugheth loud : 
Laughter bringeth tears : 

Eyes are worn away 
Till the end of fears 
Cometh in the shroud, 
Ah ! welaway ! 



All is change, woe or weal ; 
Joy is Sorrow's brother; 
Grief and gladness steal 
Symbols of each other; 
Ah ! welaway ! 
Larks in heaven's cope 
Sing : the culvers mourn 

All the livelong day. 
Be not all forlorn : 
Let us weep in liope — 
All ! welaway ! 
' " His crisp^ hair in ringis was yronne." 
— Chauceb, Kino's Tale. 



HERO TO LEANDER. 

Oh go not yet, my love, 

The night is dark and vast ; 
The white moon is hid in her heaven 
above, 
And the waves climb high and 
fast. 
Oh ! kiss me, kiss me, once again, 
Lest thy kiss should be the last. 
Oh kiss me ere we part ; 
Grow closer to my heart. 
My heart is warmer surely than the 
bosom of the main. 
O joy ! O bliss of blisses ! 

My heart of hearts art thou. 
Come bathe me with thy kisses, 

My eyelids and my brow. 
Hark how the wild rain hisses, 
And the loud sea roars below. 

Thy heart beats through thy rosy 
limbs. 
So gladly doth it stir ; 
Thine eye in drops of gladness 
swims. 
I have bathed thee with the pleas- 
ant myrrh ; 
Thy locks are dripping balm ; . 
Tliou shalt not wander hence to- 
night, 
I'll stay thee with my kisses. 
To-night the roaring brine 

Will rend thy golden tresses ; 
The ocean M'ith the morrow light 
Will be both blue and calm ; 
And the billow will embrace thee with 
a kiss as soft as mine. 

No Western odors wander 

On the black and foaming sea. 
And when thou art dead, Leander, 

My soul must follow thee ! 
Oh go not }et, my love, 

Thy voice is sweet and low ; 
The deep salt wave breaks in above 

Those marble steps below. 
The turretstairs are wet 

That lead into the sea. 
Leander ! go not yet. 
The pleasant stars have set : 
Oh ! go not, go not 3'et, 

Or I will follow thee. 



THE MYSTIC. 

Angels have talked with him, and 

showed him thrones : 
Ye knew him not ; he was not one of 

Ye scorned him with an undiscerning 

scorn : 
Ye could not read the marvel in his 

eye. 
The still serene abstraction : he hath 

felt 



676 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 



The vanities of after and before ; 

Albeit, his spirit and his secret heart 

The stern experiences of converse 
lives, 

The linke'd woes of many a fiery 
change 

Had purified, and chastened, and 
made free. 

Always there stood before him, night 
and day, 

< )f wayward var3-colored circumstance 

The imperishable presences serene, 

Colossal, without form, or sense, or 
sound, 

Dim sliadows but unwaning presences 

Fourfaced to four corners of the sky : 

And yet again, three shadows, front- 
ing one, 

One forward, one respectant, three 
but one ; 

And yet again, again and evermore. 

For the two first were not, but only 
seemed. 

One shadow in the midst of a great 
light. 

One reflex from eternity on time, 

One mighty countenance of perfect 
calm. 

Awful with most invariable eyes. 

For him the silent congregated hours. 

Daughters of time, divinely tall, be- 
neath 

Severe and youthful brows, with shin- 
ing eyes 

Smiling a godlike smile (the innocent 
light 

Of earliest youth pierced through 
and through with all 

Keen knowledges of low-embowed eld) 

Upheld, and ever hold aloft the cloud 

Which droops lowhung on either gate 
of life. 

Both birth and death : he in the cen- 
tre fixt. 

Saw far on each side through the 
grated gates 

Most pale and clear and lovely dis- 
tances. 

He often lying broad awake, and j^et 

Remaining from the body, and apart 

In intellect and power and will, hath 
heard 

Time flowing in the middle of the 
night. 

And all things creeping to a day of 
doom. 

How could ye know him ? Ye were 
yet within 

The narrower circle : he had wellnigh 
reached 

The last, which with a region of white 
flame. 

Pure without heat, into a larger air 

Upbiirning, and an- ether of black 
blue, 

Investeth and ingirds all other lives. 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 
I. 

Voice of the summerwind, 
Joy of the summerplain, 
Life of the summerhours, 
Carol clearly, bound along. 
No Tithon thou as poets feign 
(Shame fall 'em they are deaf and 

blind). 
But an insect lithe and strong. 
Bowing the seeded summer flowers. 
Prove their falsehood and thy quar- 
rel. 
Vaulting on thine airy feet. 
Clap thy shielded sides and carol, 
Carol clearlj^ chirrup sweet. 
Thou art a mailed warrior in youth 
and strength complete; 
Armed cap-a-pie 
Full fair to see ; 
Unknowing fear, 
Undreading loss, 
A gallant cavalier, 
Suns ppur et sans rej)roche, 
In sunlight and in shadow. 
The Bayard of the meadow. 



I would dwell with thee. 

Merry grasshopper, 
Thou art so glad and free, 

And as light as air; 
Thou hast no sorrow or tears. 
Thou hast no compt of years. 
No withered immortality, 
But a short youth sunny and free. 
Carol clearly, bound along, 

Soon thy joy is over, 
A summer of loud song, 

And slumbers in the clover. 
What hast thou to do witli evil 
In thine hour of love and revel. 

In thy heat of summer pride, 
Pushing the thick roots aside 
Of the singing flowered grasses. 
That brush thee with their silken 

tresses ? 
What hast thou to do with evil. 
Shooting, singing, ever springing 

In and out the emerald glooms, 
Ever leaping, ever singing. 

Lighting on the golden blooms 1 



LOVE, PRIDE, AND FORGET- 
FULNESS. 

Ere yet my heart was sweet Love's 

tomb. 
Love labored honey busily. 
I was the hive, and Love the bee. 
My heart the honeycomb. 
One very dark and chilly night 
Pride came beneath and held a light. 



LOVE AND SORROW. 



en 



The cruel vapors went through all, 
Sweet Love was withered in his cell ; 
Pride took Lore's sweets, and by a 

spell 
Did change them into gall ; 
And Memory, thougli fed by Pride, 
Did wax so thin on gall, 
Awhile she scarcely lived at all. 
What marvel that she died ? 



CHORUS. 

IN AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA, AVRITTEN 
VERY EARLY. 

The varied earth, the moving heaven, 

The rapid waste of roving sea. 
The fountain-pregnant mountains 
riven 
To shapes of wildest anarchy. 
By secret fire and midniglit storms 
That wander round their windy 
cones. 
The subtle life, the countless forms 
Of living things, the wondrous 
tones 
Of man and beast are full of 

strange 
Astonishment and boundless 
change 

The day, the diamonded night, 

The echo, feeble child of sound, 
The heavy thunder's griding might. 

The herald lightning's starry bound. 
The vocal spring of bursting bloom, 

The naked sunnner's glowing birth, 
The troublous autumn's sallow gloom. 
The hoarhead winter paving earth 
With sheeny white, are full of 

strange 
Astonishment and boundless 
change. 

Each sun which from the centre flings 

Grand music and redundant fire, 
The burning belts, the mighty rings, 
The murm'rous planets' rolling 
choir. 
The globefilled arch that, cleaving air, 

Lost in its own effulgence sleeps. 
The lawless comets as they glare. 
And thunder through the sapphire 
deeps 
In wayward strength, are full of 

strange 
Astonishment and boundless 
change. 



LOST HOPE. 

You cast to ground the hope which 
once was mine : 
But did the while your harsh decree 
deplore. 



Embalming witli sweet tears the 
vacant shrine, 
My heart, where Hope had been 
and was no more. 

So on an oaken sprout 
A goodly acorn grew; 
But winds from heaven shook the 
^corn out. 

And filled the cuj) witli dew. 



THE TEARS OF HEAVEN. 

Heaven weeps above the earth all 

night till morn. 
In darkness weeps as all ashamed to 

weep. 
Because tlie earth hath made her state 

forlorn 
With self-wrought evil of unnum- 
bered years. 
And doth the fruit of her dishonor 

reap. 
And all the day heaven gathers back 

her tears 
Into her own blue eyes so clear and 

deep. 
And showering down the glory of 

lightsome day. 
Smiles on the earth's worn brow to 

win her if she may. 



LOVE AND SORROW. 

O MAIDEN, fresher than the first green 
leaf 

With which the fearful springtide 
flecks the lea. 

Weep not, Almeida, that I said to thee 

That thou hast half my heart, for bit- 
ter grief 

Doth hold the other half in sovranty. 

Thou art my heart's sun in love's 
crystalline : 

Yet on both sides at once thou canst 
not shine : 

Thine is the bright side of my heart, 
and thine 

My heart's day, but the shadow of my 
heart. 

Issue of its own substance, my heart's 
night 

Thou canst not lighten even with thy 
light, 

Allpowerf ul in beauty as thou art. 

Almeida, if my heart were substance- 
less, 

Then might thy rays pass through to 
the other side. 

So swiftly, that they nowhere would 
abide. 

But lose themselves in utter empti- 
ness. 



67S 



SONNETS. 



Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit 

sleep ; 
They never learned to love who never 

knew to wee^j. 



TO A LADY SLEEPING. 

THOU whose fringed lids I gaze upon, 

Through whose dim brain the winge'd 
dreams are borne, 

Unroof the shrines of clearest vision, 

In honor of the silver-flecke'd morn ; 

Long hath the white wave of the vir- 
gin light 

Driven back the billow of the dream- 
ful dark. 

Thou all unwittingly prolongest night, 

Tliough long ago listening the poised 
lark, 

With eyes dropt downward through 
the blue serene, 

Over heaven's parapet the angels lean. 



SONNET. 

Could I outwear my present state of 

woe 
With one brief winter, and indue i' the 

spring 
Hues of fresh youth, and mightily 

outgrow 
The wan dark coil of faded suffer- 
ing — 
Forth in the pride of beauty issuing 
A sheeny snake, the light of vernal 

bowers. 
Moving his crest to all sweet plots 

of flowers 
And watered valleys where the young 

birds sing ; 
Could I thus hope my lost delight's 

renewing, 
I straightly would command the tears 

to creep 
From my charged lids ; but inwardly 

I weep ; 
Some vital heat as yet my heart is 

wooing : 
Tliat to itself hath drawn the frozen 

rain 
From my cold eyes, and melted it 

again. 



SONNET. 

Though Night hath climbed her peak 
of highest noon. 

And bitter blasts the screaming au- 
tumn whirl. 

All night through archways of the 
bridged pearl, 

And portals of pure silver, walks the 
moon. 



Walk on, my soul, nor crouch to agony, 
Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to 

Joy, 
And dross to gold with glorious 

alchemy, 
Basing thy throne above the world's 

annoy. 
Keign thou above the storms of sor- 
row and ruth 
That roar beneath ; unshaken peace 

hath won thee ; 
So shalt thou pierce the woven glooms 

of truth ; 
So shall the blessing of the meek be 

on thee ; 
So in thine hour of dawn, the body's 

youth, 
An honorable eld shall come upon 

thee. 



SONNET. 

Shall the hag Evil die with child 
of Good, 

Or propagate again her loathc'd kind, 

Thronging the cells of the disease'd 
mind. 

Hateful with hanging cheeks, a with- 
ered brood. 

Though liourly pastured on the salient 
blood ? 

Oh ! that the wind which bloweth cold 
or heat 

Would shatter and o'erbear the bra- 
zen beat 

Of their broad vans, and in the soli- 
tude 

Of middle space confound them, and 
blow back 

Their wild cries down their cavern 
throats, and slake 

With points of blastborne hail their 
heated eyne ! 

So their wan limbs no more miglit 
come between 

The moon and the moon's reflex in 
the night, 

Nor blot witli floating shades the solar 
light. 



SONNET. 

The pallid thunderstricken sigh for 

gain, 
Down an ideal stream they ever float. 
And sailing on Factolus in a boat. 
Drown soul and sense, while wistfully 

they strain 
Weak eyes upon the glistening sands 

that robe 
The understream. The wise, could 

he behold 
Cathedralled caverns of thickribbcd 

gold 
And branching silvers of the central 

globe, 



EXGLISH WAR-SONG. 



679 



Would marvel from so beautiful a 
sight 

How scorn and ruin, pain and hate 
could flow. 

But Hatred in a gold cave sits below ; 

Pleached with her hair, in mail of 
argent light 

Shot into gold, a snake her forehead 
clips, 

And skins the color 'from her trem- 
bling lips. 



LOVE. 



Thou, from the first, unborn, undy- 
ing love, 

Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near, 

Before the face of God didst breathe 
and move. 

Though night and pain and ruin and 
death reign here. 

Thou foldest, like a golden atmos- 
phere. 

The very throne of the eternal God : 

Passing through thee the edicts of his 
fear 

Are mellowed into music, borne abroad 

By the loud winds, though they up- 
rend the sea, 

Even from its central deeps : thine 
empery 

Is over all ; thou wilt not brook 
eclipse ; 

Thou goest and returnest to His lips 

Like lightning : thou dost ever brood 
above 

The silence of all hearts, unutterable 
Love. 



To know thee is all wisdom, and old 
age 

Is but to know thee : dimly we behold 
thee 

Athwart the veils of evils which infold 
thee. 

We beat upon our aching hearts in 
rage ; 

We cry for thee ; we deem the world 
thy tomb. 

As dwellers in lone planets look upon 

The mighty disk of their majestic sun. 

Hollowed in awful chasms of wheel- 
ing gloom. 

Making their day dim, so we gaze on 
thee. 

Come, thou of many crowns, white- 
robed love, 

Oh ! rend the veil in twain : all men 
adore thee ; 

Heaven crieth after thee ; earth wait- 
eth for thee ; 

Breathe on thy winge'd throne, and it 
shall move 

In music and in light o'er land and sea. 



And now — methinks I gaze upon 
thee now. 

As on a serpent in his agonies 

Awestricken Indians ; what time laid 
low 

And crushing the thick fragrant reeds 
he lies. 

When the new year warmbreathe'd on 
the Earth, 

Waiting to light him with her pur- 
ple skies, 

Calls to him liy the fountain to uprise. 

Already with the pangs of a new birth 

Strain the hot spheres of his con- 
vulsed eyes, 

And in his writhings awful hues begin 

To wander down his sable-sheeny 
sides. 

Like light on troubled waters : from 
within 

Anon he rusheth forth with merry din. 

And in him light and joy and strength 
abides ; 

And from his brows a crown of living 
light 

Looks through the thickstemmed 
woods by day and night. 



ENGLISH WAR-SONG. 

Who fears to die "? Who fears 

to die ! 
Is there any here who fears to die ? 
He shall find what he fears ; ami none 
shall grieve 
For the man who fears to die ; 
But the withering scorn of the many 
shall cleave 
To the man who fears to die. 
Chokus. — Shout for England ! 
Ho ! for England ! 
George for England ! 
Merry England! 
England for aye ! 

The hollow at heart shall crouch 

forlorn. 
He shall eat the bread of common 
scorn ; 
It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear, 
Shall be steeped in his own salt 
tear: 
Far better, far better he never were 
born 
Than to shame merry England 
here. 
Chorus. — Shout for England ! etc. 

There standeth our ancient 

enemy ; 
Hark ! he shouteth — the ancient 
enemy ! 
On the ridge of the hill his banners rise ; 



680 



NA TIONAL SOXG. 



They stream like fire in the skies ; 
Hold up the Lion of England on high 
Till it dazzle and blind liis eyes. 
Chords. — Shout for England ! etc. 

Come along ! we alone of the 

earth are free ; 
The child in our cradles is bolder 
than he ; 
For where is the heart and strength of 
slaves ? 
Oh ! where is the strengtli of 
slaves ■? 
He is weak ! we are strong : he a 
slave, we are free. 
Come along ! we will dig their 
graves. 
Chorus. — Shout for England ! etc. 

Therestandeth ourancient enemy, 
Will he dare to battle with the 
free? 
Spur along ! spur amain ! charge to 
the fight : 
Charge ! charge to the fight ! 
Hold up the Lion of England on high ! 

Shout for God and our right ! 
Chorus. — Shout for England ! etc. 



There are no maids like English maids, 
So beautiful as they be. 

Chorus. — For the French, etc. 



NATIONAL SONG. 

There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no hearts like English 
hearts, 

Such hearts of oak as they be. 
There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no men like Englishmen, 

So tall and bold as they be. 

Chorus. 

For the French the Pope may shrive 

'em, 
For the devil a whit we heed 'em : 
As for the French, God speed 'em 

LTnto their heart's desire. 
And the merry devil drive 'em 

Through the water and the fire. 

Full Chorus. 

Our glory is our freedom, 
We lord it o'er the sea ; 
We are the sons of freedom. 
We are free. 

There is no land like England, 
Where'er the light of day be ; 

There are no wives like English wives. 
So fair and chaste as tliey be. 

There is no land like England, 
Where'er the light of day be ; 



DUALISMS. 

Two bees within a crystal flowerbell 
rocked, 
Hum a lovelay to the westwind at 
noontide. 
Both alike, they buzz together, 
Both alike, they hum together, 
Through and through the flowered 
heather. 
Where in a creeping cove the wave 
unshocked 

Lays itself calm and wide. 
Over a stream two birds of glanc- 
ing feather 
Do woo each other, carolling 

together. 
Both alike, they glide together, 

Side by side ; 
Both alike, they sing together, 
Arching blue-glossed necks beneath 
the purple weather. 

Two children lovelier thanLove adown 

the lea are singing, 
As they gambol, lilygarlands ever 
stringing : 

Both in blosmwhite silk are 
f rocked : 
Like, unlike, tliey roam together 
Under a summervault of golden 

weather ; 
Like, unlike, they sing together 
Side by side, 
MidMay's darling golden 

locked, 
Summer's tanling diamond 
eyed. 



01 



peovre<i. 



All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams 
are true. 

All visions wild and strange ; 
Man is the measure of all truth 

Unto himself. All truth is change. 
All men do walk in sleep, and all 

Have faith in that they dream : 
For all tilings are as they seem to all, 

And all things flow like a stream. 



There is no rest, no calm, no pause, 
Nor good nor ill, nor light nor 
shade, 

Nor essence nor eternal laws : 
For notliing is, but all is made. 

But if I dream tliat all tliese are, 



TO 



6S1 



They are to me for that I dream ; 

For all things are as they seem to all, 

And all things flow like a stream. 

Argal — this very opinion is only 
true relatively to the flowing philoso- 
phers. 



TO 



All good things have not kept aloof, 
Nor wandered into other ways ; 

I have not lacked thy mild reproof, 
Nor golden largess of thy praise. 
But life is full of weary days. 



Shake hands, my friend, across the 
brink 
Of that deep grave to which I go. 
Shake hands once more: I cannot 
sink 
So far — far down, but I shall know 
Thy voice, and answer from below. 



When, in the darkness over me. 
The four-handed mole shall scrape. 

Plant thou no dusky cypress tree, 
Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful 

crape. 
But pledge me in the flowing grape. 



And when the sappy field and wood 
Grow green beneath the showery 
gray. 
And rugged barks begin to bud, 
And thi-ough damp holts,newflushed 

with May, 
Ring sudden laughters of the Jay ; 



Then let wise Nature work her will, 
And on my clay the darnels grow. 

Come only when the daj's are still. 
And at my headstone whisper low. 
And tell me if the woodbines blow 



If thou art blest, my mother's smile 
Undimmed, if bees are on the wing : 

Then cease, my friend, a little while. 
That I may hear the throstle sing 
His bridal song, the boast of spring. 



Sweet as the noise in parche'd plains 
Of bubbling wells that fret the 
stones 



(If any sense in me remains), 

Thy words will be; thy cheerful 

tones 
As welcome to my crumbling bones. 



SONNETS. 



BEAUTY, passing beauty ! sweetest 

Sweet ! 
How canst thou let me waste my 
youth in sighs ? 

1 only ask to sit beside thy feet. 
Thou knowest I dare not look into 

thine eyes. 
Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare 

not fold 
JNIy arms aljout thee — scarcely 

dare to speak. 
And nothing seems to me so wild and 

bold. 
As with one kiss to touch thy 

blessed check. 
Methinks if I should kiss thee, no 

control 
Within the thrilling brain could 

keep afloat 
The subtle spirit. Even while I 

spoke, 
The bare word Kiss hath made my 

inner soul 
To tremble like a lutestring, ere the 

note 
Hath melted in the silence that it 

broke. 



But were I loved, as I desire to be, 
What is there in the great sjihere of 

the earth. 
And range of evil between death and 

birth. 
That I should fear, — if I were loved 

by thee ? 
All the inner, all the outer world of 

pain 
Clear Love would pierce and cleave, 

if thou wert mine. 
As I have heard that, somewhere in 

the main, 
Fresh-water springs come up through 

bitter brine. 
'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand-in- 
hand with thee, 
To Avait for death — mute — careless 

of all ills. 
Apart upon a mountain, though the 

surge 
Of some new deluge from a thousand 

hills 
Flung leagues of roaring foam into 

the gorge 
Below us, as far on as eye could see. 



682 



THE HESPERIDES. 



THE HESPERIDES. 

Hesperus and his daughters three, 

That sing about the golden tree. — CoMUS. 

The Northwind fall'n, in the new- 
starred night 

Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond 

The hoary promotory of Soloe 

Past Thymiaterion, in calmed bays, 

Between the southern and the western 
Horn, 

Heard neither warbling of the nightin- 
gale, 

Nor melody of the Libyan lotus flute 

Blown seaward from the shore ; but 
from a slope 

That ran bloombright into the Atlan- 
tic blue. 

Beneath a highland leaning down a 
weight 

Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedar 
shade. 

Came voices, like the voices in a 
dream. 

Continuous, till he reached the outer 
sea. 



The golden apple, the golden apple, 
the hallowed fruit, 

Guard it well, guard it warily, 

Smging airily, 

Standing about the charmed root. 

Round about all is mute, 

As the snovvfield on the mountain- 
peaks. 

As the sandfield at the mountain-foot. 

Crocodiles in briny creeks 

Sleep and stir not : all is mute. 

If ye sing not, if ye make false meas- 
ure, 

We shall lose eternal pleasure. 

Worth eternal want of rest. 

Laugh not loudly : watch the treasure 

Of the wisdom of the West. 

In a corner wisdom whispers. Five 
and three 

(Let it not be preached abroad) make 
an awful mystery. 

For the blossom unto threefold music 
bloweth ; 

Evermore it is born anew ; 

And the sap to threefold music floweth, 

From the root 

Drawn in the dark. 

Up to the fruit. 

Creeping under the fragrant bark. 

Liquid gold, honeysweet, thro' and 
thro'. 

Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily. 

Looking warily 

Every way. 

Guard the apple night and day. 

Lest one from the East come and take 
it away. 



Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, 

watch, ever and aye. 
Looking under silver hair with a 

silver eye. 
Father, twinkle not thy steadfast sight; 
Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, 

and races die ; 
Honor comes with mystery ; 
Hoarded wisdom brings delight. 
Number, tell them over and number 
How many the mystic fruit tree holds 
Lest the redcombed dragon slumber 
Rolled together in purple folds. 
Look to him, father, lest he wink, and 

the golden apple be stol'n away. 
For his ancient heart is drunk with 

overwatchings night and day. 
Round about the hallowed fruit tree 

curled — 
Sing away, sing aloud evermore in the 

wind, without stop, 
Lest his scaled eyelid drop. 
For he is older than the world. 
If he waken, we waken. 
Rapidly levelling eager eyes. 
If he sleep, we sleep. 
Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. 
If the golden apple be taken, 
The world will be overwise. 
Five links, a golden chain, are we, 
Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three. 
Round about the golden tree. 

III. 
Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, 

watch, night and day. 
Lest the old wound of the world be 

healed, 
The glory unsealed. 
The golden apple stole'n away, 
And the ancient secret i-evealed. 
Look from west to east along: 
Father, old Himala weakens, Caucasus 

is bold and strong. 
Wandering waters unto wandering 

waters call : 
Let them clash together, foam and fall. 
Out of watchings, out of wiles, 
Comes the bliss of secret smiles. 
All things are not told to all. 
Half-round the mantling night is 

drawn, 
Purple fringed with even and dawn. 
Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening 

hateth morn. 

IV. 

Every flower and every fruit the re- 
dolent breath 
Of this warm sea wind ripeneth. 
Arching the billow in his sleep ; 
But the land wind wandereth, 
Broken by the highland-steep. 
Two streams upon the violet deep ; 
For the western sun and the western 
star, 



KA TE. 



683 



And the low west wind, breathing afar, 

The end of day and beginning of night 

Make tlie apple holy and bright ; 

Holy and bright, round and full, bright 
and blest. 

Mellowed in a land of rest; 

Watch it warily day and night ; 

All good things are in the west. 

Till mid noon the cool east light 

Is shut out by the tall hillbrow ; 

But when the fuUfaced sunset yellowly 

Stays on the flowering arch of the 
bough. 

The luscious fruitage clustereth mel- 
lowly, 

Goldenkernelled, goldencored. 

Sunset-ripened above on the tree. 

The world is wasted with fire and 
sword, 

But the apple of gold hangs over the 
sea. 

Five links, a golden chain are we, 

Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 

Daughters three, 

Boimd about 

The gnarled bole of the charmed tree. 

The golden apple, the golden apple, 
the hallowed fruit. 

Guard it well, guard it warily, 

Watch it warily, • 

Singing airily. 

Standing about the charmed root. 



NOTE TO ROSALIND. 

Perhaps the following lines may be allowed 
to stand as a separate poem; originally 
they made part of the text, where they 
were manifestly improper. See p. 23. 

My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind, 
Is one of those who know no strife 
Of inward woe or outward fear ; 
To whom the slope and stream of Life, 
The life before, the life behind, 
In the ear, from far and near, 
Chimetli musically clear. 
My falconhearted Rosalind, 
FuUsailed before a vigorous wind, 
Is one of those who cannot weep 
For others' woes, but overleap 
All the petty shocks and fears 
That trouble life in early years, 
With a flash of frolic scorn 
And keen delight, that never falls 
Away from freshness, selfupborne 
With such gladness as, whenever 
The freshflushing springtime calls 
To the flooding waters cool. 
Young fishes, on an April morn. 
Up and down a rapid river. 
Leap the little waterfalls 
That sing into the pebbled pool. 
My happy falcon, Rosalind, 
Hath daring fancies of her own, 



Fresh as the dawn before the day. 
Fresh as the early seasmell blown 
Through vineyards from an inland bay. 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
Because no shadow on you falls. 
Think you hearts are tennisballs. 
To play with, wanton Rosalind ■? 



SONG. 
Who can say 
Why To-day 

To-morrow will be yesterday 1 
Who can tell 
Why to smell 

The violet, recalls the dewy prime 
Of youth and buried time ? 
The cause is nowhere found in rhyme. 



KATE. 

I KNOvr her by her angry air. 
Her bright black eyes, her bright 
black hair. 
Her rapid laughters wild and shrill. 
As laughters of the woodpecker 
From the bosom of a hill. 
'Tis Kate — she sayeth what she will: 
For Kate hath an unbridled tongue. 
Clear as the twanging of a harp. 
Her heart is like a throbbing star. 
Kate hath a spirit ever strung 

Like a new bow, and bright and 
sharp 
As edges of the sc'ymetar. 
Whence shall she take a fitting 
mate ? 
For Kate no common love will 
feel; 
My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, 
As pure and true as blades of 
steel. 



Kate saith " the world is void of 
might." 
Kate saith " the men are gilded 
flies." 
Kate snaps her fingers at my 
vows ; 
Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. 
I would I were an armed knight. 
Far famed for wellwon enterprise. 
And wearing on my swarthy 
brows 
The garland of new-wreathed em- 
prise ; 
For in a moment I would pierce 
The blackest files of clanging fight, 
And strongly strike to left and right. 
In dreaming of my lady's eyes. 
Oh ! Kate loves well the bold and 
fierce ; 
But none are bold enough for Kate, 
She cannot find a fitting mate. 



684 



DARLING ROOM. 



SONNET. 

WRITTEN ON HEARING OF THE OUT- 
BREAK OF THE POLISH INSUR- 
RECTION. 

Blow ye the trumijet, gather from 

afar 
The hosts to battle : be not bought 

and sold. 
Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the 

bold; 
Break through your iron shackles — 

fling them far. 
for those days of Piast, ere the 

Czar 
Grew to his strength among his deserts 

cold ; 
When even to Moscow's cupolas were 

rolled 
The growing murmurs of the Polish 

war ! 
Now must your noble anger blaze out 

more 
Than when from Sobieski, clan by 

clan. 
The Moslem myriads fell, and fled 

before — 
Than when Zamoysky smote the 

Tartar Khan ; 
Than earlier, when on the Baltic 

shore 
Boleslas drove the Pomeranian. 



■ O DARLING EOOM. 
I. 

O DARLING room, my heart's delight 
Dear room, the apple of my sight, 
With thy two couches soft and white. 
There is no room so exquisite, 
No little room so warm and bright. 
Wherein to read, wherein to write. 

II. 
For I the Nonnenwerth have seen. 
And Oberwinter's vineyards green. 
Musical Lurlei ; and between 
The hills to Bingen have I been, 
Bingen in Darmstadt, where tlie 

Rhene 
Curves toward Mentz, a woody scene. 



Yet never did there meet my sight. 

In any town to left or right, 

A little room so exquisite, 

With two such couches, soft and 

white ; . 
Not any room so warm and bright. 
Wherein to read, wherein to write. 



You did mingle blame and praise. 

Rusty ChristQpher. 
When I learnt from whom it came, 
I forgave you all the blame. 

Musty Christopher ; 
I could not forgive the praise. 

Fusty Christopher. 



NO MORE. 

Oh sad No More ! Oh sweet No 
More ! 
Oh strange No More ! 
By a mossed brookbank on a stone 
I smelt a wildweed flower alone ; 
There was a ringing in my ears, 
And both my eyes gushed out with 
tears. 
Surely all pleasant thmgs had gone 

before, 
Lowburied fathom deep beneath with 
thee. No More ! 



ANACREONTICS. 
With roses muskybreathed. 
And drooping datfodilly. 
And silverleaved lily. 
And ivy darkly-wreathed, 
I wove a crown before her. 
For her I love so dearly, 
A garland for Lenora. 
With a silken cord I bound it. 
Lenora, laughing clearly 
A light and thrilling laughter. 
About her forehead wound it. 
And loved me ever after. 



TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH. 
You did late review my lays, 
Crusty Christopher ; 



A FRAGMENT. 

Where is the Giant of the Sun, which 
stood 

In the midnoon the glory of old Rhodes, 

A perfect Idol with profulgent brows 

Farsheening down the purple seas to 
those 

Who sailed from Mizraim underneath 
the star 

Named of the Dragon — and between 
whose limbs 

Of brassy vastness broadblown 
Argosies 

Drave into haven ? Yet endure un- 
scathed 

Of changeful cycles the great Pyra- 
mids 

Broadbased amid the fleeting sands, 
and sloped 

Into the slumbrous summer noon ; but 
where. 

Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks 

Graven with gorgeous emblems un- 
discerned ? 



THE NEW TIMON AND THE POETS. 



685 



Thy placid Spliinxes brooding- o'er the 

Nile ? 
Thy shadowing Idols in the solitudes, 
Awful ]\Ieniuonian countenances calm 
Looking athwart the burning flats, far 

off 
Seen by the highnecked camel on the 

verge 
Journe3''ing southward ? Where are 

thy monuments 
Piled by the strong and sunborn Ana- 

kim 
Over their crowned brethren On and 

Oph ? 
Thy Memnon when his peaceful lips 

are kist 
With earliest rays, that from his 

mother's eyes 
Flow over the Arabian bay, no more 
Breathes low into the charmed ears of 

morn 
Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile 
By columned Thebes. Old Memphis 

hath gone down : 
The Pharoahs are no more : some- 
where in death 
They sleep with staring eyes and 

gilded lips, 
Wrap2)ed round with spiced cerements 

in old grots 
Rockhewn and sealed for ever. 



SONNET. 
Me my own fate to lasting sorrow 
doometh. 
Thy woes are birds of passage, transi- 
tory : 
Thj' spirit, circled with a living glory. 
In summer still a summer joyresumeth. 
Alone my hopeless melancholy gloom- 
eth, 
Like a lone cypress, through the 
twilight hoary, 
From an old garden where no flower 
bloometh. 
One cypress on an island promon- 
tory. 
But yet my lonely spirit follows thine. 
As round the rolling earth night 
follows day : 
But yet thj' lights on my horizon shine 
Into my night, when thou art far 
away 
I am so dark, alas ! and thou so bright, 
When we two meet there's never per- 
fect light. 



SONNET. 

Check every outflash, every ruder 
sally 
Of thought and speech ; speak Ioav 
and give up wholly 
Thy spirit to mild-minded melancholy ; 



This is the place. Through yonder 
poplar valley 
Below the blue-green river windeth 
slowly ; 
But in the middle of the sombre valley 
The crisped waters whisper musically. 
And all the haunted place is dark 
and holy. 
The nightingale, with long and low 
preamble. 
Warbled from yonder knoll of 

solemn larches. 
And in and out the woodbine's 
flowery arches 
The summer midges wove their wanton 
gambol 
And all the white-stemmed pine- 
wood slept above — 
When in this valley first I told my 
love. 



THE SKIPPING-ROPE. 

Sure never yet was Antelope 

Could skip so lightly by. 
Stand off, or else my skipping-rope 

Will hit you in the eye. 
How lightly whirls the skipping-rope ! 

How fairy-like you fly ! 
Go, getyou gone, youmuse and mope — 

I hate that silly sigh. 
Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope. 

Or tell me how to die. 
There, take it, take my skijiping-rope, 

And hang yourself thereby. 



THE NEW TIMON AND THE 
POETS. 

We knoAv him, out of Shakespeare's 
art. 
And those fine curses which he 
spoke ; 
The old Timon, with his noble heart. 
That, strongly loathing, greatly 
broke. 

So died the Old : here comes the New. 

Regard him : a familiar face : 
I thouglit we knew him : What, it's you, 

The padded man — that wears the 
stays — 

Who killed the girls and thrilled the 
boys 

With dandy pathos when you wrote ! 
A Lion, you, that made a noise, 

And shook a mane en papillotes. 

And once you tried the Muses too ; 

You failed. Sir : therefore now you 
turn. 
To fall on those who are to you 

As Captain is to Subaltern. 



6S6 



BRITONS, GUARD YOUR OWN. 



But men of long-enduring hopes, 
And careless what this hour may 
bring, 
Can pardon little would-be Popes 
And Brummels, when they try to 
sting. 

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, 
And waive a little of his claim ; 

To have the deep poetic heart 
Is more than all poetic fame. 

But you, Sir, you are hard to please ; 

You never look but half content : 
Nor like a gentleman at ease. 

With moral breadth of tempera- 
ment. 

And what with spites and what with 
fears, 

You cannot let a body be : 
It's always ringing in your ears, 

" They call this man as good as me." 

What profits now to understand 
The merits of a spotless shirt — 

A dapper boot — a little hand — 
If half the little soul is dirt 1 

You talk of tinsel ! why, we see 
The old mark of rouge upon your 
cheeks. 

You prate of Nature ! you are he 
That spilt his life about the cliques. 

A TiMON you ! Nay, nay, for shame : 
It looks too arrogant a jest — 

The fierce old man — to take his name, 
You bandbox. Off, and let him rest. 



STANZAS. 

What time I wasted youthful hours. 
One of the shining winged powers, 
Show'd me vast cliffs with crown of 
towers 

As towards the gracious light I bow'd. 
They seem'd high palaces and proud. 
Hid now and then with sliding cloud. 

He said, " The labor is not small ; 
Yet winds the pathway free to all : — 
Take care thou dost not fear to fall ! " 



SONNET. 

TO "WILLIAM CHARLES MACKEADT. 

Farewell, Macready, since to-night 
we part. 
Full-handed thunders often have 
confest 



Thy power, well-used to move the 
public breast. 
We thank thee with 'one voice, and 

from the heart 
Farewell, Macready ; since this night 
we part. 
Go, take thine honors home : rank 

with the best, 
Garrick, and statelier Kemble, and 
the rest 
Who made a nation purer thro' their 

art. 
Thine is it, that our Drama did not die, 
Nor flicker down to brainless panto- 
mime. 
And those gilt gauds men-children 
swarm to see. 
Farewell, Macready ; moral, grave, 

sublime. 
Our Shakespeare's bland and universal 
eye 
Dwells pleased, thro' twice a hun- 
dred years, on thee. 



BRITONS, GUARD YOUR OWN. 

Rise, Britons, rise, if manhood be not 

dead, 
The world's last tempest darkens over- 
head; 
The Pope has bless'd him ; 
The Church caress'd him ; 
He triumphs ; may be we shall stand 
alone. 
Britons, guard your own. 

His ruthless host is bought with iilun- 

der'd gold. 
By lying priests the jieasants' votes 
controU'd. 
All freedom vanish'd. 
The true men banish'd, 
He triumphs ; may be we shall stand 
alone. 
Britons, guard your own. 

Peace-lovers we — sweet Peace we all 

desire — 
Peace-lovers we — but who can trust 
a liar ? — 
Peace-lovers, haters 
Of shameless traitors, 
We hate not France, but this man's 
heart of stone. 
Britons, guard your own. 

We hate not France, but France has 

lost her voice. 
This man is France, the man they call 
her choice. 
By tricks and spying. 
By craft and lying, 
And murder was her freedom over- 
thrown. 
Britons, guard your own. 



HANDS ALL ROUND. 



687 



" Vive I'Empereur " may follow bye 

and bye ; 
" God save the Queen " is here a truer 
cry. 
God save the Nation, 
The toleration, 
And the free speech that makes a 
Briton known. 
' Britons, guard your own. 

Rome's dearest daughter now is cap- 
tive France, 
The Jesuit laughs, and reckoning on 
his chance, 
Would unrelenting, 
Kill all dissenting. 
Till we were left to fig'lit for truth 
alone. 
Britons, guard your own. 

Call home your ships across Biscayan 

tides, 
To blow the battle from their oaken 
sides. 
Why Avaste they yonder 
Their idle thunder '? 
"Why staj' they there to guard .a 
foreign throne % 
Seamen, guard your own. 

"We were the best of marksmen long 

ago. 
We won old battles with our strength, 
the bow. 
Now practise, yoemen, 
Like those bowmen, 
Till your balls fly as their shafts have 
flown. 
Yeomen, guard your own. 

His soldier-ridden Highness might in- 
cline 
To take Sardinia, Belgium, or the 
Rhine : 
Shall we stand idle. 
Nor seek to bridle 
His rude aggressions, till we stand 
alone 1 
Make their cause your own. 

Should he land here, and for one hour 

prevail. 
There must no man go back to bear 
the tale : 
No man to bear it — 
Swear it ! we swear it ! 
Although we fight the banded world 
alone, 
We swear to guard our own. 



HANDS ALL ROUND. 

First drink a health, ihis solemn 
night, 
A health to England, every guest ; 
That man's the best cosmopolite 



Who loves his native country best. 
May Freedom's oak for ever live 

With stronger life from day to day; 
That man's the best Conservative 
Who lops the mouldered branch 
away. 
Hands all roimd ! 
God the tyrant's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, 
my friends. 
And the great name of England, 
round and round. 

A health to Europe's honest men ! 
Heaven guard them from her 
tyrants' jails ! 
From wronged Poerio's noisome den, 
From ironed limbs and tortured 
nails ! 
We curse the crimes of southern 
kings. 
The Russian whips and Austrian 
rods — 
We likeM'ise have our evil things ; 
Too much we make our Ledgers, 
Gods. 

Yet hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To Europe's better health we drink, 
my friends. 
And the great name of England, 
round and round ! 

What health to France, if France be 
she. 
Whom martial progress only 
charms ? 
Yet tell her — better to be free 

Than vanquish all the world in arms. 
Her frantic city's flashing heats 

But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. 
WJiy change the titles of your streets ? 
•You fools, you'll want them all 
again. 

Hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To France, the wiser France, we drink, 
my friends. 
And the great name of England, 
round and round. 

Gigantic daughter of the West, 

We drink to thee across the flood. 
We know thee and we love thee best. 
For art thou not of British blood \ 
Should Avar's mad blast again be 
blown. 
Permit not thou the tyrant powers 
To fight thy mother here alone, 
But let thy broadsides roar with 
ours. 

Hands all round ! 
' God the tj^rants cause confound ! 
To our dear kinsmen of the West, my 
friends, 
And the great name of England, 
round and round. 



6SS 



THE WAR. 



rise, our strong Atlantic sons, 
When war against our freedom 
springs ! 
O speak to Eui-ope through your guns ! 

They can be understood by kings. 
You must not mix our Queen with 
those 
That wish to keep their people 
fools ; 
Our freedom's foemen are her foes, 
She comprehends the race she rules. 

Hands all round ! 
God the tyrant's cause confovmd ! 
To our dear kinsmen in the West, my 
friends. 
And the great name of England 
round and round. 



THE WAR. 

There is a sound of thunder afar. 
Storm in the South that darkens the 
day, 
Storm of battle and thunder of war, 
Well, if it do not roll our way. 
Form ! form ! Eiflemen, form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the 

storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, 
form ! 

Be not deaf to the sound that warns ! 

Be not guU'd by a despot's plea ! 
Are figs of thistles, or grapes of 
thorns ■? 
How should a despot set men free 1 
Form ! form ! Riflemen, form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the 

storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, 
form ! 

Let your Reforms for a moment go, 
Look to your butts and take good 
aims. 
Better a rotten borough or so, 

Than a rotten fleet or a city in 
flames ! 
Form ! form ! Riflemen, form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the 

storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, 
form ! 

Form, be ready to do or die ! 

Form in Freedom's name and the 
Queen's ! 
True, that we have a faithful ally, 
But only the Devil knows wliat he 
means. 
Form ! form ! Riflemen, form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the 

storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, 
form ! 



1865-1866. 
I STOOD on a tower in the wet. 
And New Year and Old Year met, 
And winds were roaring and blowing ; 
And I said, "O years that meet in 

tears. 
Have ye aught that is worth tlie know- 
ing ? 
Science enough and exploring. 
Wanderers coming and going, 
Matter enough for deploring, 
But aught that is worth the knowing ? " 
Seas at my feet were flowing. 
Waves on the shingle pouring, 
Old Year roaring and blowing, 
And New Y^ar blowing and roaring. 



SONNET. 
There are three things which fill my 

heart with sighs, 
And steep my soul in laughter (wlien 

I view 
Fair maiden-forms moving like melo- 
dies) — 
Dimples, roselips, and eyes of any hue. 
There are three things beneath the 

blessed skies 
For which I live — black ej'es and 

brown and blue : 
I hold them all most dear ; but oh ! 

black eyes, 
I live and die, and only die in you. 
Of late such eyes looked at me — 

while I mused. 
At sunset, imderneath a shadowy 

plane. 
In old Bayona nigh the southern 

sea — 
From an half-open lattice looked at 

me. 
I saw no more — only those eyes — 

confused 
And dazzled to the heart A'ith glorious 

pain. 



ADDITIONAL VERSES. 

To " God Save the Queen ! " written for the 
marriage of the Princess Royal of England 
with the Crown Prince of Prussia, Jan. 25, 

1S.5S. 

God bless our Prince and Bride ! 
God keep their lands allied, 

God save the Queen ! 
Clothe them with righteousness, 
Crown them with happiness, 
Them with all blessings bless, 

God save the Queen ! 

Fair fall this hallow'd hour, 
Farewell, our England's flower, 

God save tlie Queen ! 
Farewell, first rose of May ! 
Let botTi tiie peoples sa_y, 
God bless thy marriage-day, 

God bless the Queen ! 



THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE. 



689 



SONNET ON CAMBRIDGE 

UNIVERSITY. 

Therefore youi" Halls, your ancient 

Colleges, 
Your jiortals statued with old kings 

and queens. 
Your gardens, niyriad-volumed libra- 
ries, 
Wax-lighted chapels, and rich carven 

screens. 
Your doctors, and your proctors, and 

your deans 
Shall not avail you, when the Day- 
beam sports 
New-risen o'er awaken'd Albion — 

No! 
Nor yet your solemn organ-pipes that 

blow 
Melodious thunders thro' your vacant 

courts 
At morn and eve — because your 

manner sorts 
Not with this age wherefrom ye stand 

apart — 
Because the lips of little children 

preach 
Against you, 3'ou that do profess to 

teach 
And teach us nothing, feeding not the 

heart. 



LINES. 
Here often, when a child, I lay re- 
clined, 
I took delight in this locality. 
Here stood the infant Ilion of the 
mind. 
And here the Grecian ships did 
seem to be. 
And here again I come, and only find 
The drain-cut levels of the marshy 
lea, — 
Gray sandbanks, and pale sunsets, — 
dreary wind. 
Dim shores, dense rains, and heavy- 
clouded sea ! 



THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY 
BRIGADE AT BALACLAVA.i 

October 25, 1854. 

I. 

The charge of the gallant three hun- 
dred, the Heavy Brigade ! — 

1 The "three hundred" of the "Heavy 
Brigade " who made lliis famous chai'ge were 
the ^cots Greys and the second squadron of 
Inniskillens; the remainder of the "Heavy 
Brigade " subsequently dashing up to their 
support. 

The "three" were Elliot, Scarlett's aide- 
de-camp, who had been riding by his side, 
and the trumpeter, and Shegog the orderly, 
who had been close behind him. 



Down the hill, down the hill, thousands 

of Russians, 
Thousands of horsemen, drew to the 

valley — and stay'd ; 
For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hun- 
dred were riding by 
"When the points of the Russian lances 

broke in on the sky ; 
And he call'd "Left wheel into line ! " 

and they wheel'd and obey'd. 
Then he look'd at the host that had 

halted he knew not why. 
And he turn'd half round, and he bade 

his trumpeter sound 
To the charge, and he rode on ahead, 

as he waved his blade 
To the gallant three hundred whose 

glory will never die — 
"Follow," and up the hill, uj) the hill, 

up the hill, 
FoUow'd the Heavy Brigade. 



The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, 

and the might of the fight ! — 
Down the hill, slowly, thousands of 

Russians 
Drew to the valley, and halted at last 

on the height, 
AVith a wing push'd out to the left, 

and a wing to the right — 
But Scarlett was far on ahead, and he 

dash'd up alone 
Thro' the great gray slope of men. 
And he wheel'd his sabre, he held his 

own 
Like an Englishman there and then ; 
And the three that were nearest him 

. follow'd with force. 
Wedged themselves in between horse 

and horse. 
Fought for their lives in the narrow 

gap they had made. 
Four amid thousands ; and up the hill, 

up the hill, 
Gallopt the gallant three hundred, 

the Heavy Brigade. 



Fell like a cannon-shot. 
Burst like a thunder-bolt, 
Crash'd like a hurricane, 
Broke thro' the mass from below, 
Drove thro' the midst of the foe. 
Plunged up and down, to and fro, 
Rode flashing blow upon blow. 
Brave Inniskillens and Greys 
Whirling their sabres in circles of 

light ! 
And some of us, all in amaze. 
Who were held for a wJiile from the 

fight. 
And were only standing at gaze. 
When the dark-muffled Russian crowd 
Folded its wings from the left and the 

right. 



690 



TO VIRGIL. 



And roU'd them around like a cloud — 

O mad for the charge and the battle 
were we, 

When our own good redcoats sank 
from sight, 

Like drops of blood in a dark-gray 
sea. 

And we turn'd to each other, mutter- 
ing, all dismay'd. 

Lost are the gallant three hundred, the 
Heavy Brigade ! 



But they rode like Victors and Lords 
Thro' the forest of lances and swords 
In the heart of the Russian hordes ; 
They rode, or they stood at bay — 
Struck with the sword-hand and slew, 
Down with the bridle-hand drew 
The foe from the saddle and threw 
Underfoot there in the fray — 
Ranged like a storm or stood like a 

rock 
In the wave of a stormy day ; 
Till suddenly shock \\\)0\\ shock 
Stagger'd the mass from without, 
For our men gallopt up with a cheer 

and a shout, 
And the Russian surged, and waver'd, 

and reel'd 
Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out 

of the field, 
Over the brow and away. 



Glory to each and to all, and the 
charge that they made ! 

Glory to all the three hundred, the 
Heavy Brigade ! 



TO VIRGIL. 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE 
MANTUANS FOR THE NINETEENTH 
CENTENARY OF VIRGIL's DEATH. 



Roman Virgil, thou that singest 

Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire, 

Ilion falling, Rome arising, 

wars, and filial faith and Dido's 
pyre; 



Landscape-lover, lord of language 
more than he that sang the Works 
and Da3^s, 
All the chosen coin of fancy 

flashing out from many a golden 
phrase ; 



Thou that singest wheat and woodland, 
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse 
and herd ; 

All the charm of all the Muses 

often flowering in a lonely word ; 



Poet of the happy Tityrus 

jiiping underneath his beechen 
bowers ; 
Poet of the poet-satyr 

whom the laughing shepherd 
bound with flowers ; 



Chanter of the Pollio, glorying 

in the blissful years again to be, 

Summers of the snakeless meadow, 
unlaborious earth and oarless 
sea; 



Thou that seest Universal 

Nature moved by Universal 
Mind; 
Thou majestic in thy sadness 

at the doubtful doom of human 
kind j 



Light among the vanish'd ages ; 

star that gildest yet this phantom 
shore ; 
Golden branch amid the shadows, 
kings and realms that pass to rise 
no more ; 



Now thy Forum roars no longer, 

fallen every purj^le Cajsar's 
dome — 
Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm 

sound for ever of Imperial 
Rome — 



Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, 
and the Rome of freemen holds 
her place, 
I, from out the Northern Island 

sunder'd once from all the human 
race. 



I salute thee, Mantovano, 

I that loved thee since my day 
began, 
Wielder of the stateliest measure 

ever moulded by the lips of man. 



DESPAIR: A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE. 691 



DESPAIR: A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE. 

[A man and his wife having lost faith in a God, and hope of a life to come, and being 
uttterly miserable in this, resolve to end themselves by drowning. The woman is drowned 
but the man is rescued by a minister of the sect he had abandoned.] ' 

Is it you, that preach'd in the chapel there looking over the sand ' 
FoUow'd us too that night, and dogg'd us, and drew me to land ? 

What did I feel that night ? You are curious. How should I tell ? 

Does it matter so much what I felt ? You rescued me — yet was it well 

That you came unwish'd for, uncall'd, between me and the deep and my doom 
Three days since, three more dark days of the Godless gloom 
Of a life without sun, without health, without hope, without any delight 
In anytliing here upon earth ? but all God, tliat night, that night 
When the rolling eyes of the light-house there on the fatal neck 
Of land running out into rock — they had saved many hundreds from wreck- 
Glared on our way toward death, I remember I thought as we past 
Does it matter how many they saved ? we are all of us wreck'd at last — 
" Do you fear," and there came thro' the roar of the breaker a whisper, a breath 
" Fear ? am I not with you ? I am frighted at life not death." 

And the suns of the limitless Universe sparkled and shone in the sky. 
Flashing with fires as of God, but we knew that their lit^ht was a lie — 
Bright as Avith deathless hope — but, however tliey sparkled and shone. 
The dark little worlds running routid them were worlds of woe like our own — 
No soul in the heaven above, no soul on tlie earth below, 
A fiery scroll written over with lamentation and woe. 

See, we were nursed in the dark night-fold of your fatalist creed, 

And we turn'd to the growing dawn, we had hoped for a dawn indeed. 

When the light of a Sun that was coming would scatter the ghosts of the Past, 

And the cramping creeds that had madden'd the peoples would vanish at last. 

And we broke away from the Christ, our human brother and friend. 

For He spoke, or it seem'd that He spoke, of a Hell without help, without end. 

Hoped for a dawn and it came, but the promise had faded away ; 

We had past from a cheerless night to tiie glare of a drearier day; 

He is only a cloud and a smoke who was once a pillar of fire. 

The guess of a worm in the dust and the shadow of its desire — 

Of a worm as it writhes in a world of the weak trodden down by the strong, 

Of a dying worm in a world, all massacre, murder, and wrong. 

O we poor orphans of nothing — alone on that lonely shore — 
^Born of the brainless Nature who knew not that which she bore ! 
Trusting no longer that earthly flower would be heavenly fruit — 
Come from the brute, poor souls — no souls — and to die with the brute — 

Nay, but I am not claiming your pity : I know you of old — 
Small pity for those that have ranged from the narrow warmth of your fold, 
Wiiere you bawl'd the dark side of your faith and a God of eternal rage, 
Till you flung us back on ourselves, and the human heart, and the Age. 

But pity — the Pagan held it a vice — was in her and in me. 

Helpless, taking the place of the pitying God that should be ! 

Pity for all that aches in the grasp of an idiot power. 

And pity for our own selves on an eartli that bore not a flower ; 

Pity for all that suffers on land or in air or the deep. 

And pity for our own selves till we long'd for eternal sleep. 

"Lightly step over the sands ! the waters — you hear them call ! 
Life with its anguish, and horrors, and errors — away with it all ! " 
And she laid her hand in my own -- slie was always loyal and sweet — 
Till the points of the foam in the dusk came playing about our feet. 
There was a strong sea-current would sweep us out to the main. 
"Ah God " tlio' I felt as I spoke I was taking the name in vain — 



692 DESPAIR : A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE. 

" Ah God " and we turn'd to each other, we kiss'd, we embraced, slie and I, 
Knowing the Love we were used to believe everlasting would die : 
We had read their know-nothing books and wp lean'd to the darker side — 
Ah God, should we tind Him, i>erhaps, perhaps, if we died, if we died ? 
We never had found Him on earth — this earth is a fatherless Hell — 
" Dear Love, for ever and ever, for ever and ever farewell ! " 
Never a cry so desolate, not since the world began ; 
Never a kiss so sad, no, not since the coming of man. 

But the blind wave cast me ashore, and you saved me, a valueless life. 
Not a grain of gratitude mine ! You have parted the man from the wife. 
I am left alone on the land, she is all alone in the sea. 
If a curse meant ought, I would c^lrse you for not having let me be. 

Visions of youth — for my brain was drunk with the water, it seems ; 

I had past into perfect quiet at length out of pleasant dreams. 

And the transient trouble of drowning — what was it when raatch'd with the 

pains 
Of the hellish heat of a wretched life rushing back thro' the veins ? 

Why should I live ? one son had forged on his father and fled, 
And if I believed in a God, 1 would thank him, the other is dead. 
And there was a baby-girl, that had never look'd on the light : 
Happiest she of us all, for she past from the night to the night. 

But the crime, if a crime, of her eldest-born, her glory, her boast, 
Struck hard at the tender heart of the mother, and broke it almost ; 
Tho', name and fame dying out for ever in endless time. 
Does it matter so much whether crown'd for a virtue, or hang'd for a crime ? 

And ruin'd by him, by him, I stood there, naked, amazed 

In a world of aiTogant opulence, fear'd mj'self turning crazed. 

And I would not be mock'd in a madhouse ! and she, the delicate wife, 

With a grief that could only be cured, if cured, by the surgeon's knife, — 

Why should we bear with an hour of torture, a moment of pain. 

If every man die for ever, if all his griefs are in vain, 

And the homeless i^lanet at length will be wheel'd thro' the silence of space, 

Motherless evermore of an ever-vanishing race. 

When the worm shall have writhed its last, and its last brother-worm will have 

fled 
From the dead fossil skull that is left in the rocks of an earth is dead ? 

Have I crazed myself over their horrible infidel writings ? O yes, 

For these are the new dark ages, you see, of the popular press, 

When the bat comes out of his cave, and the owls are whooping at noon, \ 

And Doubt is the lord of this dunghill and crows to the sun and the moon. 

Till the Sun and the Moon of our science are both of them turn'd into blood, 

And Hope will have broken her heart, running after a shadow of good ; 

For their knowing and know-nothing books are scattered from hand to hand — 

We have knelt in your know-all chapel too looking over the sand. 

Wliat! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well 1 
Infinite wickedness rather that made everlasting Hell, 

Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own ; 
Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan ! 

Hell ? if the souls of men were immortal, as men have been told, 

The lecher would cleave to his lusts, and the miser would yearn for his gold. 

And so there were Hell for ever ! but were there a God as you say. 

His Love would have power over Hell till it utterly vanish'd away. 

Ah yet — I have had some glimmer, at times, in my gloomiest woe. 

Of a God behind all — after all — the great God for aught that I know ; 

But the God of Love and of Hell together — they cannot be thought ; 

If tliere be such a God, may the Great God curse him and bring him to nought ! 



EARLY SPRING. 



693 



Blasphemy ! whose is the fault ? is it mine ? for why would you save 
A madman to vex you with wretched words, who is best in his gi'ave ? 
Blasphemy! ay, why not, being damn'd beyond hope of grace ? 
O would I were yonder with her, and away from your faith and your face ! 
Blasphemy ! true ! I have scared you pale with my scandalous talk, 
But the blasphemy to my mind lies all in the way that you walk. 

Hence ! she is gone ! can I stay ? can I breathe divorced from the Past ? 
You needs must have good lynx-eyes if I do not escape you at last. 
Our orthodox coroner doubtless will find it a felo-de-se, 
And the stake and the cross-road, fool, if you will, does it matter to me ? 



MIDNIGHT, JUNE 30, 1879. 



Midnight — in no midsummer tune 
The breakers lash the shores : 

The cuckoo of a joyless June 
Is calling out-of-doors : 

And thou hast vanish'd from thine 
own 

To that which looks like rest, 
True brother, only to be known 

By those who love thee best. 



Midnight — and joyless June gone by. 
And from the deluged park 

The cuckoo of a worse July 
Is calling thro' the dark : 

But thou art silent under-ground. 
And o'er thee streams the rain. 

True poet, surelj^ to be found 
When Truth is found again. 



And, now to these unsummer'd skies 

The summer bird is still, 
Far off a phantom cuckoo cries 

From out a phantom hill ; 

And thro' this midnight breaks the 
sun 

Of sixty years away, 
The light of days when life begun. 

The days that seem to-day. 

When all my griefs were shared with 
thee, 

And all my hopes were thine — 
As all thou wert was one with me, 

May all thou art be mine ! 



EARLY SPRING. 

Once more the Heavenly Power 

Makes all things new, 
And domes the red-plough'd hills 

With loving blue ; 
The blackbirds have their wills. 

The throstles too. 



Opens a door in Heaven ; 

From skies of glass 
A Jacob's-ladder falls 

On greening grass, 
And o'er the mountain-walls 

Young angels pass. 



Before them fleets the shower, 

And burst the buds. 
And shine the level lands. 

And flash the floods ; 
The stars are from their hands 

Flung thro' the woods ; 

The woods by living airs 

How freshly fann'd. 
Light airs from where the deep, 

All down the sand, 
Is breathing in his sleep, 

Heard by the land ! 



O follow, leaping blood. 

The season's lure ! 
O heart, look down and up. 

Serene, secure. 
Warm as tlie crocus-ctip. 

Like snowdrops, pure ! 



Past, future, glimpse and fade 
Thro' some slight spell. 

Some gleam from j^onder vale. 
Some far blue fell, 

And sympathies, how frail. 
In sound and smell. 



Till, at thy chuckled note. 
Thou twinkling bird. 

The fairy fancies range. 
And, lightly stirr'd. 

Ring little bells of change 
From word to word. 



For now the Heavenly Power 
Makes all things new. 

And thaws the cold, and fills 
The flower with dew ; 

The blackbirds have their wills. 
The poets too. 



694 



FREEDOM. 



" FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE." 

Row us out from Desenzano, to your 

Sirmione row ! 
So they row'd, and there we landed — 

" O venusta Sirmio ! " 
There to me thro' all the groves of 

olive in the summer glow, 
There beneath the Roman ruin where 

the purple flowers grow, 
Came that " Ave atque Vale " of the 

Poet's hopeless woe, 
Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen- 

hundred years ago, 
"Frater Ave atque Vale" — as we 

wander'd to and fro 
Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the 

Garda-lake below 
Sweet CatuUus's all-but-island, olive- 
silvery Sirmio ! 



FREEDOM. 

Thou so fair in Summers gone, 
While yet thy fresli and virgin soul 

Inform'd tlie column'd Parthenon, 
The glittering Capitol ; 

So fair in southern sunshine bathed, 
But scarce of such majestic mien- 

As here with forehead vapor-swathed 
In meadows ever green ; 

For thou — when Athens reign'd and 
Rome, 
Thy glorious eyes were dimfu'd with 
pain 



To mark in many a freeman's home ' 
The slave, tlie scourge, the chain ; 

O follower of the Vision, still 
In motion to the distant gleam, 

Howe'er blind force and brainless will 
May jar thy golden dream. 

Who, like great Nature, wouldst not 
mar 

By changes all too fierce and fast 
This order of our Human Star, 

This heritage of the past ; 

O scorner of the party cry 

That wanders from the public good, 
Thou — when the nations rear on high 

Their idol smear'd with blood, 

And when they roll their idol down — 
Of saner Worship sanely proud ; 

Thou loather of the lawless crown 
As of the lawless crowd ; 

How long thine ever-growing mind 
Hath still'd the blast and strewn the 
wave. 
Though some of late would raise a 
wind 
To sing thee to thy grave, 

Men loud against all forms of 
power — 
Unfurnish'd brows, tempestuous 
tongues, 
Expecting all things in an hour — 
Brass mouths and iron lungs ! 



POEMS, BY TWO BEOTHERS.^ 

[ALFRED AND CHARLES TENNYSON.] 



' Ilsec DOS novimus esse nihil." — Martial. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The following Poems were written from the ages of fifteen to eighteen, not conjointly, but 
individually ; which may account for their diflerence of style and matter. To light upon any novel 
combination of images, or to open any vein of sparkling thought untouched before, were no easy task- 
indeed, the remark itself is as old as the truth is clear; and, no doubt, if submitted to the micro- 
scopic eye of periodical criticism, a long list of inaccuracies and imitations would result from the 
investigation. But so it is: we have passed the Rubicon, and we leave the rest to fate; though its 
edict may create a fruitless regret that we ever emerged from " the shade," and courted notoriety. 

March, 1827. 



'Tis sweet to lead from stage to stage, 

Like infancy to a maturer age, 

Tlie fleeting thoughts that crowd 

quick Fancy's view. 
And the coy image into form to woo ; 
Till all its charms to life and shape 

awake. 
Wrought to the finest polish they can 

take : 
Now out of sight the crafty Proteus 

steals, 
The mind's quick emissaries at his 

heels. 
Its nature now a partial light reveals. 
Each moment's labor, easier than 

before. 
Embodies the illusive image more ; 
Brings it more closely underneath the 

eye, 
And lends it form and palpability. 
What late in shadowy vision fleeted 

by, 
Receives at each essay a deepening 

dye ; 
Till diction gives us, modell'd into 

song, 
The fairy phantoms of the motley 

throng ; 
Detaining and elucidating well 
Her airy embryos with binding spell ; 
For when the mind reflects its image 

true — 
Sees its own aim — expression must 

ensue ; 
If all but language is supplied be- 
fore, 



She quickly follows, and the task is 

o'er. 
Thus when the hand of pyrotechnic 

skill 
Has stored the spokes of the fantastic 

wheel, 
Apply the flame — it spreads as is 

design'd, 
And glides and lightens o'er the track 

defined ; 
Unerring on its faithful pathway burns. 
Searches each nook, and tracks its 

thousand turns ; 
The well-fiU'd tubes in flexile flame 

arrays, 
And fires each winding of the preg- 
nant maze ; 
Feeding on prompt materials, spurns 

delay, 
Till o'er the whole the lambent glories 

play. 
I know no joy so well deserves the 

name. 
None that more justly may that title 

claim. 
Than that of which the poet is pos- 

sess'd 
When warm imagination fires his 

breast. 
And countless images like claimants 

throng. 
Prompting the ardent ecstasy of song. 
He Avalks his study in a dreaming 

mood. 
Like Pythia's priestess panting with 

the god; 



1 London : Printed for W. Simpkiu, and R. Marshall, 8tationei;s-hall Court: and J. and J. Jack- 
eon, Louth. MDCCCXXVII. 



696 



STANZAS. 



His varying brow, betraying what he 

feels, 
The labor of his plastic mind reveals : 
Now roughly furrow'd into anxious 

storms, 
If with much toil his lab'ring lines he 

forms ; 
Now brightening into triumph as, the 

skein 
Unravelling, he cons them o'er again, 
As each correction of his favorite piece 
Confers more smoothness, elegance, 

or ease. 

Such are the sweets of song — and in 
this age, 



Perchance too many in its lists en- 
gage ; 
And they who now would fain awake 

the lyre, 
May swell this supernumerary choir : 
But ye, who deign to read, forget t' 

apply 
The searching microscope of scrutiny : 
Few from too near inspection fail to 

lose. 
Distance on all a mellowing haze 

bestows ; 
And who is not indebted to that aid 
Which throws his failures into wel- 
come shade ? 



POEMS. 



STANZAS. 

YoK star of eve, so soft and 'clear, 
Beams mildly from the realms of 
rest ; 

And, sure, some deathless angel there 
Lives in its light supremely blest : 

Yet if it be a spirit's shrine, 

I think, my love, it must be thine. 

Oh ! if in happier worlds than this 

The just rejoice ^to thee is giv'n 
To taste the calm, undying bliss 

Eternally in that blue heav'n, 
Whither thine earnest soul would flow, 
While yet it linger'd here below. 
If Beauty, Wit, and Virtue find 

In heav'n a more exalted throne. 
To thee such glory is assign'd. 

And thou art matchless and alone : 
Who lived on earth so pure — may 

grace 
In heav'n the brightest seraph's place. 

For tho' on earth thy beauty's bloom 
Blush'd in its spring, and faded then. 
And, mourning o'er thine early tomb, 
I weep thee still, but weep in vain ; 
Bright was the transitory gleam 
That cheer'd thy life's short wav'ring 

dream. 
Each j^outhful rival may confess 
Thy look, thy smile, beyond com- 
pare, 
Nor ask the palm of loveliness, 

AVhen thou wert more than doubly 
fair : 
Yet ev'n the magic of that form 
Drew from thy mind its loveliest 
charm. 

Be thou as the immortal are. 

Who dwell beneath their God's own 
wing ; 



A spirit of light, a living star, 

A holy and a searchless thing : 
But oh ! forget not those who mourn, 
Because thou canst no more return. 



" IN EARLY YOUTH I LOST MY 

SIRE." 

"Hinc mibi prima mali labes." — Virgil. 

Ix early j-outh I lost my sire. 

That f ost'ring guide, which all require, 

But chief in youth, when passion 

glows, 
And, if uncheck'd, to frenzy grows, 
The fountain of a thousand woes. 
To flowers it is an hurtful thing 
To lose the sunshine in the spring ; 
Without the sun they cannot bloom, 
And seldom to perfection come. 
E'en so my soul, that might have 

borne 
The fruits of virtue, left forlorn, 
By every blast of vice was torn. 
Why lowers my brow, dost thou en- 
quire ? 
Why burns mine eye with feverish 

fire '? 
With hatred now, and now with ire '? 
In earJy ijouth I lost my sire. 

From this I date whatever vice 
Has numb'd my feelings into ice ; 
From this — the frown upon my brow ; 
From this — the pangs that rack me 

now. 
My wealth, I can with safety say. 
Ne'er bought me one unruffled day. 
But only wore my life away. 
The pruning-knife ne'er lopp'd a 

bough ; 
My passions spread, and strengthen'd 

too. 



MEM OR Y. 



697 



The chief of these was vast ambition, 
That h)ng'd with eagle-wing to soar; 
Nor ever soften'd in contrition, 

Tho' that wild wing were drench'd 

in gore. 
And other passions play'd their part 
On stage most fit — a youthful heart ; 
Till far beyond all hope I fell, 
A play -thing for the fiends of hell — 
A vessel, tost upon a deep 
Whose stormy waves would never 

sleep. 
Alas ! when virtue once has flown. 
We need not ask why peace is gone : 
If she at times a moment play'd 
With bright beam on my mind's dark 

shade, 
I knew the rainbow^ soon would fade ! 
Why thus it is, dost thou enquire ? 
Why bleeds my breast with tortures 

dire 1 
Loathes the rank earth, yet soars not 

higher ? 
In earUj ijouih I lost mij sire. 



MEMORY. 

" The meinory is perpetuallj' looking baclj 
when we have nothing present to entertain 
us: it is Wkti those repositories in animals 
that are filled with stores of food on which 
they may ruminate when their present past- 
ure fails." — Addison. 

Memory ! dear enchanter ! 

Why bring back to view 
Dreams of youth, which banter 

All that e'er was true ? 

Why present before me 

Thoughts of years gone by, 

Which, like shadows o'er me, 
Dim in distance fly ? 

Days of youth, now shaded 

By twilight of long years. 
Flowers of youth, now faded 

Though bathed in sorrow's tears: 

Thoughts of youth, which waken 

jMournful feelings now, 
Fruits which time hath shaken 

Front off their parent bough : 

Memory ! wjiy, oh why, 

This fond heart consuming, 

Show me years gone by, 

When those hopes were blooming 1 

Hopes which now are parted, 
Hopes which then I prized. 

Which this world, cold-hearted, 
Ne'er has realized ? 

I knew not then its strife, 
I knew not then its rancor; 



In every rose of life, 

Alas ! there lurks a canker. 

Round every palm-tree, springing 
With bright fruit in the waste, 

A mournful asj) is clinging. 
Which sours it to our taste. 

O'er every fountain, pouring 

Its waters thro' the wild, 
Which man imbibes, adoring, 

And deems it undefiled. 

The poison-shrul)s are dropping 
'i'lieir dark dews day In' day ; 

And Care is hourly loi)])ing 
Our greenest boughs away ! 

Ah ! these are thoughts that griev 
me 

Then, when others rest. 
Memory ! why deceive me 

By thy visions blest ? 

Why lift the veil, dividing 

The Vn-illiant courts of sjiring — 

Where gilded shapes are gliding 
In fairy coloring — 

From age's frosty mansion, 
So cheerless and so chill 1 

Why bid the bleak expansion 
Of past life meet us still ? 

Where's now that peace of mind 
O'er youth's pure bosom stealing, 

So sweet and so refined. 
So exquisite a feeling '? 

Where's now the heart exulting 
In pleasure's buf)yant sense, 

And gaiety, resulting 

From conscious iimocence 7 

All, all have past and fled. 
And left me lorn and lonely ; 

All those dear hopes are dead. 
Remembrance wakes them only ! 

I stand like some lone tower 
Of former days remaining. 

Within whose place of power 
The midnight owl is plaining ; — 

Like oak-tree old and gray, 

Whose trunk with age is failing, 

Thro' whose dark bouglis for aye 
The winter winds are wailing. 

Thus, IMemory, thus thy light 
O'er this worn soul is gleaming, 

Like some far fire at night 

Along the dun deep streaming. 



698 



"HAVE YE NOT SEEN THE BUOYANT ORB?' 



"YES — THERE BE SOME GAY 

SOULS WHO NEVER 

WEEP." 

" O Lachryraarum foiis, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex animo." 

— Gray's Poemata. 

Yes — there be some gay souls who 
never weep, 
And some who, weeping, hate the 
tear they shed ; 
But sure in them the heart's fine feel- 
ings sleep. 
And all its loveliest attributes are 
dead. 

For oh ! to feel it swelling to the eye. 
When melancholy thoughts have 
sent it there. 

Is something so akin to ecstasy. 
So true a balm to misery and care. 

That those are cold, I ween, who can- 
not feel 
The soft, the sweet, the exquisite 
control, 
AVhich tears, as down the moisten'd 
cheek they steal. 
Hold o'er the yielding empire of the 
soul. 

They soothe, they ease, and they re- 
fine the breast. 
And blunt the agonizing stings of 
grief, 
And lend the tortured mind a healing 
rest, 
A welcome opiate, and a kind relief. 

Then, if the pow'r of woe thou wouldst 
disarm. 
The tear thy burning wounds will 
gently close ; 
The rage of grief will sink into a 
calm. 
And her wild frenzy find the wish'd 
repose. 



"HAVE YE NOT SEEN THE 
BUOYANT ORB ? " 

" A bubble . . . 
That iu the act of seizing Bhrinlis to 
naught." 

— Clake. 

Have ye not seen the buoyant orb, 
which oft 
The tube and childhood's playful 
breath produce ? 
Fair, but impalpable — it mounts 
aloft. 
While o'er its surface rove the rest- 
less hues ; 



And sun-born tints their gliding 

bloom diffuse : 
But 'twill not brook the touch — 

the vision bright. 
Dissolved with instantaneous burst, 

we lose ; 
Breaks the thin globe with its array 

of light 
And shrinks at once to naught, at 

contact e'er so slight. 

So the gay hopes we chase with ardent 
zeal — 
Which view'd at distance to our 
gaze appear 
Sweetly embodied, tangible, and 
real — 
Elude our grasp, and melt away to 
air : 
(The test of touch too delicate to bear, 
In unsubstantial loveliness thy glow 
Before our wistful eyes, too passing 
fair 
For earth to realize or man to 
know. 
Whose life is but a scene of fallacy 
and woe. 



THE EXILE'S HARP. 

I WILL hang thee, my harp, by the 
side of the fountain, 
On the whispering branch of the 
lone-waving willow : 
Above thee shall rush the hoarse gale 
of the mountain. 
Below thee shall tumble the dark 
breaking billow. 
The winds shall blow by thee, aban- 
don'd, forsaken, 
The wild gales alone shall arouse 
thy sad strain ; 
For where is the heart or the hand to 
awaken 
The sounds of thy soul-soothing 
sweetness again ? 
Oh ! harp of my fathers ! 

Thy chords shall decay, 
One by one with the strings 

Shall thy notes fade away ; 
Till the fiercest of tempests 

Around tliee may yell, 

And not waken one sound 

Of thy desolate sli'ell ! 

Yet, oh ! yet, ere I go, will I fling a 

wreath round thee. 
With the richest of flowers in the 

green valley springing ; 
Those that see shall remember the 

hand that hath crown'd thee, 
When, withcr'd and dead, to thee 

still tliey are clinging. 
There ! now I have wreathed thee — 

the roses are twining 



'WHY SHOULD WE WEEP FOR THOSE WHO DIE?" 



699 



Thy chortls with tlieir bright blos- 
soms glowing and red : 
Though the lapse of one day see their 
freshness declining, 
Yet bloom for one day when thy 
minstrel has fled ! 
Oh ! harp of my fathers ! 

No more in the hall, 
The souls of the chieftains 

Thy strains shall enthral : 
One sweep will I give thee, 

And wake thy bold swell ; 
Then, thou friend of my bosom, 
Foi-ever farewell ! 



" WHY SHOULD WE WEEP FOR 
THOSE WHO DIE ? " 

" Quamobrera, si dolorum finem mor 
aft'ert, si securioris et melioris initium viui- : 
si futura mala avertit — cur earn tantopeic 
aeeusare, ex qua potius consolationem et 
lajtitiam haurire fas asset ? " — Cicero. 

Whx should we weep for those who 
die ? 
They fall — their dust returns to 
dust ; 
Their souls shall live eternally 
Within the mansions of the just. 

They die to live — they sink to rise, 
They leave this wretched mortal 
shore ; 

But brighter suns and bluer skies 
Shall smile on them forevermore. 



Why should we sorrow for the dead ? 

< )ur life on earth is but a span ; 
They tread the path that all must 
tread, 
They die the common death of 
man. 

The noblest songster of the gale 
IMust cease, when Winter's frowns 
appear; 
The reddest rose is wan and pale. 
When Autumn tints the changing 
year. 

The fairest flower on earth must fade, 
The brightest hopes on earth must 
die : 
Why should we mourn that man was 
made 
To droop on earth, but dwell on 
high ? 

The soul, th' eternal soul, must reign 
In worlds devoid of pain and strife ; 

Tlien why should mortal man com- 
plain 
Of death, which leads to happier life ? 



"RELIGION! THO' WE SEEM 

TO SPURN." 
" Sublatam ex oculis quserimus." — Horace. 
Religion ! tho' we seem to spurn 
Thy hallow'd joys, their loss we 
mourn, 

With many a secret tear ; 
Tho' we have long dissolved the tie. 
The hour we broke it claims a sigh. 

And Virtue still is dear. 

Our hearts forget not she was fair, 
And her pure feelings, ling'ring there, 

Half win us back from ill ; 
And — tho' so long to Vice resign'd 
'Twould seem we've left her far be- 
hind — 

Pursue and haunt us still. 

Thus light's all-penetrating glow 
Attends us to the deeps below. 

With wav'ring, rosy gleam : 
To the bold inmates of the bell 
Faint rays of distant sunlight ^ steal. 

And thro' the waters beam. 

By the rude blasts of passion tost. 
We sigh for bliss we ne'er had lost, 

Had Conscience been our guide ; 
She burns a lamp we need not trim. 
Whose steady flame is never dim. 

But throws its lustre wide. 



REMORSE. 

"... Sudani tacita praecordia culpa." 

— Juvenal. 

Oh ! 'tis a fearful thing to glance 

Back on the gloom of misspent 
years : 
What shadowy forms of guilt ad- 
vance. 

And fill me with a thousand fears ! 
The vices of my life arise, 

Portray'd in shapes, alas ! too true ; 

And not one beam of hope breaks 
through, 
To cheer my old and aching eyes, 
T' illume my night of wretchedness 
My age of anguish and distress. 
If I am damn'd, why find I not 
Some comfort in this earthly spot ? 
But no ! this world and that to come 
Are both to me one scene of gloom ! 
Lest ought of solace I should see, 

Or lose the thoughts of what I do, 
Remorse, with soul-felt agony. 

Holds uji the mirror to my view. 
And I was cursed from my birth, 
A reptile made to creep on earth, 
An hopeless outcast, born to die 
A living death eternallj' ! 

'A vermeil color plays on the hands and 
faces of those who descend in this machine. 



700 



THE DELL OF E- 



With too much conscience to have 

rest, 
Too little to be ever blest, 
To yon vast world of endless woe, 
Unlighted by the cheerful day. 
My soul shall wing her weary way ; 
To those dread depths where aye 
the same 
Throughout the waste of darkness, 
glow 
The glimmerings of the boundless 
flame. 
And yet I cannot here below 
Take my full cup of guilt, as some, 
And laugh away my doom to come. 
I would I'd been all-heartless ! then 
I might have sinn'd like other men ; 
But all this side the grave is fear, 
A wilderness so dank and drear. 
That never wholesome plant would 
spring ; 
And all behind — I dare not think ! 
I would not risk th' imagining — 
From the full view my spirits 
shrink ; 
And starting backwards, yet I cling 
To life, whose every hour to me 
Hath been increase of misery. 
But yet I cling to it, for well 

I know the pangs that rack me 
now 
Are trifles, to the endless hell 

That waits me, when my burning 
brow 
And my wrung eyes shall hope in 

vain 
For one small drop to cool the pain, 
The fury of that madd'ning flame 
That then shall scorch my writhing 

frame ! 
Fiends ! who have goaded me to ill ! 
Distracting fiends, who goad me still ! 
If e'er I work'd a sinful deed. 

Ye know how bitter was the 
draught ; 
Ye know my inmost soul would bleed, 
And ye have look'd at me and 
laugh'd 
Triumphing that I could not free 
My spirit from your slavery ! 
Yet is there that in me \vliich says. 
Should these old feet tlieir course 
retread 
From out the portal of mv days. 

That I should lead the I'ife I've led : 
My agony, my torturing slvame, 
My guilt, my errors all the same ! 
O God ! that thou wouldst grant that 
ne'er 
My soul its clay-cold bed forsake. 
That I might sleep, and never wake 
Unto the thrill of conscious fear ; 

For when the trumpet's piercing cry 
Shall burst upon my slumb'ring ear. 
And countless seraphs throng the 
sky, 



How shall I cast my shroud awaj', 
And come into the blaze of day ? 
How shall I brook to hear each crime, 
Here veil'd by secrecy and time, 
Read out from thine eternal book ? 
How shall I stand before thy thi-one. 
While earth shall like a furnace 
burn "? 
How shall I bear the with'ring look 
Of men and angels, who will turn 
Their dreadful gaze on me alone '. 



"ON GOLDEN EVENINGS, WHEN 

THE SUN." 



' The bliss to meet. 
And the pain to part ! 



-Moore. 



On golden evenings, when the sun 

In splendor sinks to rest, 
How we regret, when they are gone. 

Those glories of the west, 
That o'er the crimson-mantled sky 
Threw their broad flush of deejiest 
dye! 

But when the wheeling orb again 
Breaks gorgeous on the view, 

And tints the earth and fires the main 
With rich and ruddy hue. 

We soon forget the eve of sorrow. 

For joy at that more brilliant morrow. 

E'en so wlien much-loved friends 

depart. 
Their farewell rends the swelling 

heart ; 
But when those friends again we see, 
M'e glow with soul-felt ecstasy. 
That far exceeds the tearful feeling 
That o'er our bosoms then was steal- 
ing. 
The rapture of that joyous day 
Bids former sorrows fade away ; 
And Memory dwells no more on sad- 
ness 
When breaks that sudden morn of 
gladness ! 



THE DELL OF E . 

" Tantum sevi lonainqua valet niutare vetus- 
tas!" — Virgil. 

There was a long, low, rushy dell, 

emboss'd 
With knolls of grass and clumps of 

copsewood green ; 
Midway a wandering burn the valley 

cross'd. 
And streak'd with silvery line the 

woodland scene ; 
High hills on either side to heaven 

upsprung. 



J/V BROTHER. 



701 



Y-c'lad with groves of undulating 
pine, 
Upon whose heads the hoary vapors 
luing, 
And far — far off the heights were 
seen to shine 
In clear relief against the sapphire 

And many a blue stream wander'd 

thro' the shade 
Of those dark groves that clomb the 

mountains high, 
And glistening 'neath each lone 

entangled glade, 
At length with brawling accent loudly 

fell 
Within the limpid brook that wound 

along the dell. 
How pleasant was the ever-varying 

light 
Beneath that emerald coverture of 

boughs ! 
How often, at th' approach of dewy 

night. 
Have those tall pine-trees heard the 

lover's vows ! 
How many a name was carved upon 

the trunk 
Of each old hollow willow-tree, that 

stoop'd 
To lave its branches in the brook, 

and drunk 
Its freshening dew ! How many a 

cypress droop'd % 

From those fair banks, where bloom'd 

the earliest flowers, 
Which the young year from her 

abounding horn 
Scatters profuse within her secret 

bowers ! 
What rapturous gales from that wild 

dell were borne ! 
And, floating on the rich spring 

breezes, flung 
Their incense o'er that wave on whose 

bright banks they sprung ! 
Long years had past, and there again 

I came. 
But man's rude hand had sorely 

scathed the dell ; 
And though the cloud-capt mountains, 

still the same, 
Uprear'd each heaven-invading pin- 
nacle ; 
Yet were the charms of that lone 

valley fled. 
And the gray winding of the stream 

was gone ; 
The brook once murmuring o'er its 

pebbly bed, 
Now deeply — straightly — noise- 
lessly went on. 
Slow turn'd the sluggish wheel beneath 

its force, 
Where clattering mills disturb'd 

the solitude : 



Where was tlie prattling of its former 

course ? 
Its shelving, sedgy sides y-crown'd 

with wood ? 
The willow trunks were fell'd, the 

names erased 
From one broad shatter'd pine which 

still its station graced. 

Remnant of all its brethren, there it 
stood, 
Braving the storms that swept the 
cliffs above, 
Where once, throughout th' impene- 
trable wood, 
Were heard tlie plainings of the pen- 
sive dove. 
But man had bid 1\\' eternal forests bow 
That bloom'd upon the earth-im- 
bediled base 
Of the strong mountain, and per- 
chance they now 
Upon the billows'were the dwelling- 
place 
Of their destroyers, and bore terror 
round 
The trembling earth: — ah! love- 
lier had they still 
Whisper'd unto the breezes with low 
sound, 
And greenly flourish'd on their 
native hill, 
And flinging their proud arms in state 

on high. 
Spread out beneath the sun their 
glorious canopy ! 



MY BROTHER. 

" Meorum prime sodalium." — Horace. 

With falt'ring step I came to see, 
In Death's unheeding apathy. 
That friend so dear in life to me. 

My brother ! 

'Mid flowers of loveliest scent and hue 
That strew'd thy form, 'twas sad to 

view 
Thy lifeless face peep wanly through, 
My brother ! 

Why did they (there they did not 

feel!) 
With studious care all else conceal. 
But thy cold face alone reveal. 

My brother ! 

They might have known, what used 

to glow 
With smiles, and oft dispell'd my woe. 
Would chill me most, when faded so. 
My brother ! 



702 



'/ WANDER IN DARKNESS AND SORROW." 



The tolling of thy funeral bell, 

The nine low notes that spoke thy 

knell, 
I know not how I bore so well, 

My brother ! 

But oh ! the chill, dank mould that 

slid. 
Dull-sounding, on thy coffin-lid, 
That drew more tears than all beside. 
My brother ! 

And then I hurried fast away ; 
How could I e'er have borne to stay 
Where careless hand inhumed thy 
clay. My brother ! 



ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA. 

Cleopatra ! fare thee well. 
We two can meet no more ; 

This breaking heart alone can tell 

The love to thee I bore. 
But wear not thou the conqueror's 
chain 

Upon thy race and thee ; 
And tliougli we ne'er can meet again, 

Yet still be true to me : 
For I for thee have lost a throne, 
To wear the crown of love alone. 

Fair daughter of a regal line ! 

To thraldom bow not tame ; 
My every wish on earth was thine, 

My every hope the same. 
And I have moved within thy sphere, 

And lived within thy light ; 
And oh ! thou wert to me so dear, 

I breathed but in thy sight ! 
A subject world I lost for thee, ^ 

For thou wert all my world to me ! 

Then when the shriekings of the dying 

Were heard along the wave, 
Soul of my soul ! I saw thee flying ; 

I foUow'd thee, to save. 
The thunder of the brazen prows 

O'er Actium's ocean rung; 
Fame's garland faded from my brows, 

Her wreath away I flung. 

1 sought, I saw, I heard but thee : 
For what to love was victory ? 

Thine on the earth, and on the throne, 

And in the grave, am I ; 
And, dying, still I am thine own. 

Thy bleeding Antony. 
How shall my spirit joy to hear 

That thou art ever true ! 
Nay — weep not — drj' that burning 
tear. 

That bathes thine eyes' dark hue. 
Shades of vay fathers ! lo ! I come ; 
I hear your voices from tlie tomb ! 



"I WANDER IN DARKNESS 
AND SORROW." 

I WANDER in darkness and sorrow, 

Unfriended, and cold, and alone, 
As dismally gurgles beside me 

The bleak river's desolate moan. 
The rise of the volleying thunder 

The mountain's lone echoes repeat : 
The roar of the wind is around me, 

The leaves of the year at my feet. 

I wander in darkness and sorrow, 

Uncheer'd by the moon's placid ray ; 
Not a friend that I lov'd but is dead, 

Not a hope but has faded away ! 
Oh! when shall I rest in the tomb. 

Wrapt about with the chill winding- 
sheet ■? 
For the roar of the wind is aromid me. 

The leaves of the year at my feet. 

I heed not the blasts that sweep o'er 
me, 
I blame not the tempests of night ; 
They are not the foes who have ban- 
ish 'd 
The visions of youthful delight : 
I hail the wild sound of their raving, 

Their merciless presence I greet ; 
Though the roar of the wind be around 
me, 
The leaves of the year at my feet. 

In this waste of existence, for solace. 

On whom shall my lone spirit call ? 
Shall I fly to the friends of m}' bosom ? 

My God ! I have buried them all ! 
They are dead, they are gone, they 
are cold, 

My embraces no longer they meet ; 
Let the roar of the wind be around 
me. 

The leaves of the year at \\\y feet ! 

Those eyes that glanced love unto 
mine. 
With motionless slumbers are prest ; 
Those hearts which once throbb'd but 
for me, 
Are chill as the earth where they 
rest. 
Then around on my wan wither'd form 

Let the pitiless hurricanes beat ; 
Let the roar of the wind be around me. 
The leaves of the year at my feet ! 

Like the voice of the owl in the hall, 
Where the song and the banquet 
have ceased, 
Where the green leaves have mantled 
the hearth 
Whence arose the proud flame of 
the feast ; 
So I cry to the storm, whose dark 
wing 



TO ONE WHOSE HOPE REPOSED ON THEE." 



703 



Scatters on me the wild-driving 
sleet — 
"Let the roar of the wind be around me, 
The fall of the leaves at my feet I " 



"TO ONE WHOSE HOPE RE- 
POSED ON THEE." 

" She's gone . . . 
She's sunk, with her my joys entombing:! " 
— Bybon. 

To one whose hope reposed on thee, 
Whose very life was in thine own. 

How deep a wound thy death must be, 
And the wild thought that thou art 
gone ! 

Oh ! must the earth-born reptiles prey 
Upon that cheek of late so bloom- 
ing? 
Alas ! this heart must wear away 
Long ere that cheek they've done 
consuming ! 

For hire the sexton toU'd thy bell — 
But why should he receive a meed 

Who work'd at least no mortal's weal, 
And made one lonely bosom bleed 1 

For hire with read}^ movdd he stood — 
But why should gain his care repay 

Who told, as harshly as he could. 
That all I loved was past away ? 

For, sure, it was too rude a blow 
For Misery's ever-wakeful ear, 

To cast the earth with sudden throw 
Upon the grave of one so dear : 

For aye these bitter tears must swell, 
Tho' the sad scene is past and gone ; 

And still I hear the tolling bell, 
For Memory makes each sense her 
own. 

But stay, my soul ! thy plaint forbear, 
And be thy murm'ring song for- 
given ! 
Tread but the path of Virtue here, 
And thou shalt meet with her 
in heaven ! 



THE OLD SWOED. 

Old Sword ! tho' dim and rusted 

Be now thy sheeny blade, 
Thy glitt'ring edge encrusted 
With cankers Time hath made ; 
Yet once around thee swell'd the 
cry 
Of triumph's fierce delight, 
The shoutings of the victory. 
The thunders of the fight ! 



Tho' agp hath past upon thee 
With still corroding breath, 
Yet once stream'd redly on thee 
The purpling tide of death : 

Wliat time amid the war of foes 

The dastard's cheek grew pale, 
As through the feudal field arose 
The ringing of the mail. 

Old Sword ! what arm hath wielded 

Thy richly gleaming brand, 

'Mid lordly forms who shielded 

The maidens of their land ? 

And who hath clov'n his foes in 
wrath 
With thy puissant fire, 
And scatter'd in his perilous path 
The victims of his ire ? 

Old Sword! whose fingers clasp'd thee 

Around thy carved hilt ? 
And with that hand which grasp'd 
thee 
What heroes' blood was spilt ; 
When fearlessly, with open hearts. 

And lance to lance opposed, 
Beneath the shade of barbed 
darts 
The dark-eyed warriors closed ? 

Old Sword ! I would not burnish 

Thy venerable rust. 
Nor sweep away the tarnish 
Of darkness and of dust ! 

Lie there, in slow and still decay, 

Unfamed in olden rhyme, 
The relic of a former day, 
A wreck of ancient time ! 



THE GONDOLA. 

" 'Tis sweet to hear 
At midnight, o'er the blue and moonlit deep. 
The song and oar of Adria's gondolier." 

— Don Juan. 

O'er ocean's curling surges borne 
along, 
Arion sung — the dolphin caught 
the strain, 
As soft the mellow'd accents of his 
tongue 
Stole o'er the surface of the watery 
plain. 

And do those silver sounds, so deep, 
so clear, 
Possess less magic than Arion's lay 1 
Swell they less boldly on the ravish'd 
ear. 
Or with less cadence do they die 
away ? 

Yon gondola, that skims the moon- 
light sea, 
Yields me those notes more wild 
than Houri's Ivre, 



704 



BY AN EXILE OF BASSORAH. 



That, as tliey rise, exalt to ecstasy, 
And draw the tear as, length'ning, 
they expire. 

An arch of purest azure beams above, 
A sea, as blue, as beauteous, spreads 
below ; 
In this voluptuous clime of song and 
love 
What room for sorrow ? who shall 
cherish woe 1 

False thought ! tho' pleasure wing the 
careless hours, 
Their stores tho' Cyprus and Arabia 
send, 
Tho' for the ear their fascinating power 
Divine Timotheus and Cecilia 
blend ; — 

All without Virtue's relish fail to 
please, 
Venetian charms the cares of Vice 
alloy, 
Joy's swiftest, brightest current they 
can freeze, 
And all the genuine sweets of life 
destroy ! 



"WE MEET NO MORE." 

We meet no more — the die is cast, 
The chain is broke that tied us. 

Our every hope on earth is past, 
And there's no helm to guide us : 

We meet no more — the roaring blast 
And angry seas divide us ! 

And I stand on a distant shore. 
The breakers round me swelling ; 

And lonely thoughts of days gone o'er 
Have made thisbreasttheir dwelling: 

We meet no more — We meet no more : 
Farewell forever, Ellen ! 



WRITTEN 

BY AN EXILE OF BASSORAH, 

•WHILE SAILING DOWN THE EU- 
PHRATES. 

Thou land of the lily ! thy gay flowers 
are blooming 
In joy on thine hills, but they bloom 
not for me ; 
For a dark gulf of woe, all my fond 
hopes entombing, 
Has roU'd it's black waves 'twixt 
this lone heart and thee. 

The far-distant hills, and the groves 
of my childhood, 
Now stream in the light of the sun's 
setting ray; 
And the tall-waving palms of my own 
native wildwood 
In the blue haze of distance are 
melting away. 



I see thee, Bassorah ! in splendor re- 
tiring. 
Where thy waves and thy walls in 
their majesty meet ; 
I see the bright glory thy pinnacles 
firing, 
And the broad vassal river that rolls 
at thy feet. 

I see thee but faintly — thy tall towers 
are beaming 
On the dusky horizon so far and so 
blue ; 
And minaret and mosque in the dis- 
tance are gleaming, 
While the coast of the stranger ex- 
pands on my view. 

I see thee no more : for the deep 
waves have parted 
The land of my birth from her 
desolate son; 
And I am gone from thee, though 
half broken-hearted. 
To wander thro' climes where thy 
name is unknown. 

Farewell to my harp, which I hung in 
my anguish 
On the lonely palmetto that nods to 
the gale ; 
For its sweet-breathing tones in for- 
getfulness languish, 
And around it the ivy shall weave a 
green veil. 

Farewell to the days which so smoothly 
have glided 
With the maiden whose look was like 
Cama's young glance. 
And the sheen of whose eyes was the 
load-star which guided 
My course on this earth thro' the 
storms of mischance ! 



MARIA TO HER LUTE, 

THE GIFT OP HER DYING LOVER. 

" O laborum 
Dulce lenimen ! " — Horace. 

I LOVE thee, Lute ! my soul is link'd 
to thee 
As by some tie — 'tis not a ground- 
less love ; 
I cannot rouse thy plaintive melody, 
And fail its magic influence to prove. 

I think I found thee more than ever 
dear 
(If thought can work within this 
fever'd brain) 
Since Edward's lifeless form Avas 
buried here, 
And I deplored his hapless fate in 
vain. 

'Twas then to thee my strange affec- 
tion grew, 



THE VALE OF BONES. 



705 



For thou wort his — I've liearcl him 

wake thy strain : 
Oh ! if in heaven each other we shall 

view, 
I'll bid him sweei) thy mournful 

chords again. 

I would not change thee for the noblest 
lyre 
That ever lent its music to the 
breeze : 
How could Maria taste its note of fire ? 
How wake a harmony that could 
not please 1 

Then, till mine eye shall glaze, and 
cheek shall fade, 
I'll keep thee, prize thee as my dear- 
est friend ; 
And oft I'll hasten to the green-wood 
shade, 
My hours in sweet, tho' fruitless 
grief to spend. 

For in the tear there is a nameless joy ; 
The full warm gush relieves the 
aching soul : 
So still, to ease my hopeless agony, 
My lute shall warble and my tears 
shall roll. 



THE VALE OF BONES. 

" Albis informem — ossibns agrura." 

— Horace. 

Along yon vapor-mantled sky 
The dark-red moon is riding high; 
At times her beams in beauty break 
Upon the broad and silv'ry lake ; 
At times more bright they clearly fall 
On some white castle's ruin'd wall; 
At times her partial splendor shines 
Upon the grove of deep-black pines. 
Through which the dreary night-breeze 

moans. 
Above this Vale of scatter'd bones. 

The low, dull gale can scarcely stir 
The branches of that black'ning fir. 
Which betwixt me and heav'n flings 

wide 
Its shadowy boughs on either side. 
And o'er yon granite rock uprears 
Its giant form of many years. 
And the shrill owlet's desolate wail 
Comes to mine ear along the gale. 
As, list'ning to its lengthen'd tones, 
I dimly pace the Vale of Bones. 

Dark Valley ! still the same art 

thou, 
Unchanged thy mountain's cloudy 

brow ; 
Still from yon cliffs, that part asunder. 
Falls down the torrent's echoing 

thunder ; 



Still from this mound of reeds and 

rushes 
With bubbling sound the fountain 

gushes ; 
Thence, winding th»o' the whisp'ring 

ranks 
Of sedges on the willowy banks. 
Still brawling, chafes the rugged stones 
That strew this dismal Vale of Bones. 

Unchanged art thou ! no storm hath 
rent 
Thy rude and rocky battlement ; 
Thy rioting mountains sternly piled, 
The screen of nature, wide and wild : 
.But who were they whose bones be- 
strew 
The heather, cold with midnight dew. 
Upon whose slowly-rotting clay 
The raven long hath ceased to prey, 
But, mould'ring in the moonlight air. 
Their wan, white sculls show bleak 

and bare 1 
And, aye, the dreary night-breeze 

moans 
Above them in this Vale of Bones ! 

I knew them all — a gallant band, 
The glory of their native land, 
And on each lordly brow elate 
Sat valor and contempt of fate. 
Fierceness of youth, and scorn of foe, 
And pride to render blow for blow. 
In the strong war's tumultuous crash 
How darkly did their keen eyes fiash ! 
How fearlessly each arm was raised! 
How dazzlingly each broad-sword 

blazed ! 
Though now the dreary night-breeze 

moans 
Above them in this Vale of Bones. 

What lapse of time shall sweep 
away 

The memory of that gallant day. 

When on to battle proudly going. 

Your plumage to the wild winds blow- 
ing, 

Your tartans far behind ye flowing, 

Your pennons raised, your clarions 
sounding, 

Fiercely your steeds beneath ye bound- 
ing. 

Ye mix'd the strife of warring foes 

In fiery shock and deadly close ? 

What stampings in the madd'ning 
strife. 

What thrusts, what stabs, with brand 
and knife. 

What desp'rate strokes for death or 
life. 

Were there ! What cries, what thrill- 
ing groans, 

Ke-echoed thro' the Vale of Bones ! 

Thou peaceful Vale, whose moun- 
tains lonely 



706 



TO FANCY. 



Sound to tlie torrent's chiding onlj-, 
Or wild goat's cry from rock^' ledge, 
Or bull-frog from the rustling sedge, 
Or eagle from her airy cairn, 
Or screaming of fhe startled hern — 
How did thy million echoes waken 
Amid thy caverns deeply shaken ! 
How with the red dew o'er thee rain'd 
Thine emerald turf was darkly stain'd ! 
How did each innocent flower, that 

sprung 
Thy greenh'-tangled glades among. 
Blush with tlie big and puri)le drops 
That dribbled from the leafy copse ! 
I paced the valley, when the j'ell 
Of triumph's voice had ceased to swell ; 
When battle's brazen throat no more 
Raised its annihilating roar. 
There lay ye on each other piled, 
Your brows with noble dust defiled ; ^ 
There, by the loudly-gushing water. 
Lay man and horse in mingled 

slaughter. 
Then wept I not, thrice gallant band ; 
For though no more each dauntless 

hand 
The thunder of the combat hurl'd. 
Yet still with pride your lips were 

curl'd ; 
And e'en in death'so'erwhelmingsliade 
Your fingers linger'd round tlie blade ! 
I deem'd, when gazing proudly there 
Upon the fix'd and haughty air 
That mark'd each warrior's bloodless 

face. 
Ye would not change the narrow space 
Which each cold form of breathless 

clay 
Then cover'd, as on earth ye lay. 
For realms, for sceptres, or for 

thrones — 
I dream'd not on this Yale of Bones ! 

But years have thrown their veil 
between, 
And alter'd is that lonely scene ; 
And dreadful emblems of thy might, 
Stern dissolution ! meet my sight : 
The eyeless socket, dark and dull. 
The hideous grinning of the skull. 
Are sights which Memory disowns, 
Thou melancholy Yale of Bones ! 



TO FANCY. 

Bright angel of heavenliest birth ! 
W^lio dwellest among us unseen, 
O'er the gloomiest spot on the earth 
There's a charm where tliy footsteps 
have been. 
We feel thy soft sunshine in youth, 
While our joys like young blossoms 
are new ; 

1 " Non indecoro pulvere sordidos." 

— Horace. 



For oh ! thou art sweeter than Truth, 
And fairer and lovelier too ! 

The exile, who raourneth alone. 

Is glad in the glow of tliy smile, 
Tho' far from the land of his own. 

In the ocean's most desolate isle : 
And the captive, who pines in his 
chain. 

Sees the banners of glory unroU'd, 
As he dreams of his own native plain, 

And the forms of the heroes of old. 

In the earliest ray of the morn. 

In the last rosy splendor of even. 
We view thee — thy spirit is borne 

On the murmuring zephyrs of 
heaven : 
Thou art in the sunbeam of noon, 

Thou art in the azure of air. 
If I pore on the sheen of the moon, 

If I search the bright stars, thou 
art there ! 

Thou art in the rapturous eye 

Of the bard, when his visions rush 
o'er him; 
And like the fresh iris on high 

Are the wonders that sparkle before 
him. 
Thou stirrest the thunders of song, 
Those transports that brook not 
control; 
Thy voice is the charm of his tongue, 
'Thj'- magic the light of his soul ! 

Like the day-star that heralds the sun. 

Thou seem'st, when our young hopes 
are dawning ; 
But ah ! when the daj' is begim, 

Thou art gone like the star of the 
morning ! 
Like a beam in the winter of years. 

When the joys of existence are cold," 
Thine image can dry upour tears, 

And brighten the eyes of the old ! 

Tho' dreary and dark be the night 
Of afltliction that gathers around, 

There is something of heaven in thy 
light. 
Glad spirit! where'er thou art found : 

As calmly the sea-maid may lie 
In her pearly pavilion at rest, 

The heart-broken and friendless may 

fly 

To the shade of thy bower, and be 
blest ! 



BOYHOOD. 

"All, happy years! once more who would 
not be a'boy ? " — Chihle Harohl. 

Boyhood's blest hours ! when yet im- 
fledged and callow. 



'DID NOT THY ROSEATE LIPS OUTVIE: 



707 



We prove those joys we never can 
retain, 
In riper years with fond regret we 
hallow, 
Like some sweet scene we never see 
again. 

For youth — whate'er may be its petty 
woes. 
Its trivial sorrows — disappoint- 
ments — fears, 
As on in haste life's wintrj^ current 
flows — 
Still claims, and still receives, its 
debt of tears. 

Yes ! when, in grim alliance, grief and 
time 
Silver our heads and rob our liearts 
of case, 
We gaze along the deeps of care and 
crime 
To the far, fading shore of youth 
and peace ; 

Each object that we meet the more 
endears 
That rosy morn before a troubled 
day; 
That blooming dawn — that sunrise 
of our years — 
That sweet voluptuous vision past 
away ! 

For by the welcome, tho' embittering 
power 
Of wakeful memory, we too well 
behold 
That lightsome — careless — unreturn- 
ing hour. 
Beyond the reach of wishes or of 
gold. 

And ye, whom blighted hopes or pas- 
sion's heat 
Have taught the pangs that care- 
worn hearts endure. 
Ye will not deem the vernal rose so 
sweet ! 
Ye will not call the driven snow so 
pure ! 



"DID NOT THY EOSEATE LIPS 
OUTVIE." 

" Ulla si juris tibi pejerati 
Poena, Barine, nocuisset unquam; 
Denti si nigro fieres, vel uno 
Tiirpior utigui 
Crederem." — Horace. 

Did not thy roseate lips outvie 
The gay anana's spicy bloom ; ^ 

^ I'Uoa says that the blossom of the West- 
Indian anana is of so elegant a crimson as 
even to dazzle the eye, and that the fragrancy 
of the fruit discovers the plant, though con- 
cealed from sight. — See Ulloa's ]'(>ynges, 
vol. i., p. 72. 



Had not thy breath the luxury. 
The richness of its deep perfume — 

Were not the pearls it fans more clear 
Than those which grace the valved 
shell; 
Thy foot more airy than the deer, 
AVhen startled from his lonely 
dell — 

Were not thy bosom's stainless white- 
ness, 
Where angel loves their vigils keep, 
More lieavenly than the dazzling 
brightness 
Of the cold crescent on the deep — 

Were not thine eye a star might grace 
Yon sapphire concave beaming 
clear. 

Or fill the vanish'd Pleiad's i)lace. 
And shine for aye as brightly there — 

Had not thy locks the golden glow 
That robes the gay and early east, 

Thus falling in luxuriant flow- 
Around thy fair but faithless breast: 

I might have deem'dthat thouwert she 
Of the Cuma^an cave, who wrote 

Each fate-involving mystery 

Uijon the feathery leaves that float. 

Borne thro' the boundless waste of air. 
Wherever chancemight drive along. 

But she was wrinkled — thou art fair : 
And she was old — but thou art 
young. 

Her years were as the sands that strew 
The fretted ocean-beach; but tliou — 

Triumphant in that eye of blue, 
Beneath thy smoothly - marbled 
brow ; 

Exulting in thy form thus moulded. 

By nature's tenderest touch design 'd; 
Proud of the fetters thou hast folded 
• Around this fond deluded mind — 



Deceivest still with practised look. 
With fickle vow, and well-feign'd 
sigh. 

I tell thee, that I will not brook 
Reiterated perjury ! 

Alas ! I feel thy deep control, 

E'en now when I would break thy 
chain : 

But while I seek to gain thy soul, 
Ah ! say — hast thou a soul to gain 1 



708 



HUNTSMAN'S SONG. 



HUNTSMAN'S SONG. 

" Who the melodies of morn can tell ? " 
— Beattie. 

Oh ! what is so sweet as a morning in 

spring, 
When the gale is all freshness, and 

larks, on the wing, 
In clear liquid carols their gratitude 

sing? 

I rove o'er the hill as it sparkles with 

dew. 
And the red flush of Phoebus with 

ecstasy A-iew, 
As he breaks thro' the east o'er thy 

crags, Benvenue! 

And boldl}' I bound o'er the mountain- 
ous scene. 

Like the roe which I hunt thro' the 
woodlands so green. 

Or the torrent which leaps from the 
height to the plain. 

The life of the hunter is chainless and 

As the wing of the falcon that wins 
him his prey ; 

No song is so glad as his blithe rounde- 
lay. 

His eyes in soft arbors the Moslem 

may close. 
And Fayoum's rich odors may breathe 

from the rose. 
To scent his bright harem and lull his 

repose : 

Th' Italian may vaunt of his sweet 

harmony. 
And mingle soft sounds of voluptuous 

glee ; 
But the lark's airy music is sweeter 

to me. 

Then happy the man who upsprings 

with the morn. 
But not from a couch of effeminate 

lawn, 
And slings o'er his shoulder his loud 

bugle-horn ! 



PERSIA. 

" The flower and choice 
Of many provinces from bound to bound." 
— Milton. 

Land of bright eye and lofty brow ! 
Whose every gale is balmy breath 
Of incense from some sunny flower, 
Which on tall hill or valley low. 
In clustering maze or circling wreath. 
Sheds perfume ; or in blooming 
bower 
Of Schiraz or of Ispahan, 
In bower untrod by foot of man, 



Clasps round tiie green and fragrant 
stem 

Of lotos, fair and fresh and blue, 
And crowns it with a diadem 

Of blossoms, ever j'oung and new; 
Oh ! lives there yet within thy soul 

Aught of the fire of him who led 
Th}' troops, and bade thy tlmnder roll 

O'er lone Assyria's crownless head ? 

I tell thee, had that conqueror red 
From Thymbria's plain beheld 
thy fall, 
When stormy Macedonia swept 

Thine honors from thee one and 
all. 
He would have wail'd, he would have 

wept. 
That thy proud spirit should have 

bow'd 
To Alexander, doubly proud. 
Oh, Iran ! Iran ! had he known 
The downfall of his mighty throne, 
Or had he seen that fatal night. 

When the young king of Macedon 

In madness led his veterans on, 
And Thais held the funeral light. 
Around that noble pile which rose 

Irradiant with the pomp of gold. 

In high Persepolis of old, 
Encompass'd with its frenzied foes ; 
He would have groan'd, he would 

have spread 
The dust upon his laurell'd head, 
To view the setting of that star. 
Which beam'd so gorgeously and far 
O'er Anatolia and the fane 
Of Belus, and Ca'ister's. plain. 

And Sardis, and the glittering sands 

Of bright Pactolus, and the lands 
Where Crcesus held his rich domain: 
On fair Diarbeck's land of spice,' 
Adiabene's plains of rice. 
Where down th' Euphrates, swift and 

strong. 
The shield-like kuphars bound along ;2 
And sad Cunaxa's field, where, mixing 

With host to adverse host opposed, 
'Mid clashing shield and spear trans- 
fixing, 

The rival brothers sternly closed. 
And further east, where, broadlyroll'd. 
Old Indus pours his stream of gold ; 
And there where, tumbling deep and 

hoarse. 
Blue Ganga leaves her vaccine source ;^ 
Loveliest of all the lovely streams 
That meet immortal Titan's beams, 
And smile upon their fruitful way 
Beneath his golden Orient ray : 
And southward to Cilicia's shore, 

' Xenophon says that every shrub in these 
wilds had an aromatic odor. 

' Rennel ou Herodotus. 

3 The cavern in the ridge of Himmalah, 
whence the Ganges seems to derive its origi- 
nal springs, has been moulded, by the mind 
of Hindoo superstition, into the head of a cow. 



EGYPT. 



ro9 



Where Cydnus meets the biUows' roar, 
And where the Syrian gates divide 
The meeting reahns on eitlier side ; ^ 
E'en to the hind of Nile, wliose crops 

Bloom rich beneath his bounteous 
swell, 

To hot Syene's wondrous well, 
Nigh to the long-lived ^thiops. 
And northward far to Trebizonde, 

Renown'd for kings of chivalry. 
Near where old Hyssus, rolling from 
the strand, 

Disgorges in the Euxine Sea-*- 
The Euxine, falsely named, which 
whelms 

The mariner in the heaving tide. 
To high Sinope's distant reahns, 

Whence cynics rail'd at human pride. 



EGYPT. 

" Egypt's palmy groves, 
Her grots, and sepulchres of kings." 

— Moore's Lalla Rookh. 

The sombre pencil of the dim-gray 
dawn 
Draws a faint sketch of Egypt to 
mine eye. 
As yet uncolor'd by the brilliant 
morn, 
And her gay orb careering up the sky. 

And see ! at last he comes in radiant 
pride, 
Life in his eye, and glory in his 
ray; 
No veiling mists his growing splendor 
hide. 
And hang their gloom around his 
golden way. 

The flowery region brightens in his 
smile, ' 

Her lap of blossoms freights the 
passing gale. 
That robs the odors of each balmy 
isle. 
Each fragrant field and aromatic 
vale. 

But the first glitter of his rising beam 
Falls on the broad-based pyramids 
sublime. 
As proud to show us with his earliest 
gleam 
Those vast and hoary enemies of 
Time. 

E'en History's self, whose certain 
scrutiny 
Few eras in the list of Time beguile. 
Pauses, and scans them with aston- 
ish'd eye, 
As unfamiliar with their aged pile. 
^ See Xenophon's " Expeditio Cyri." 



I Awful, august, magnificent, they 
tower 
Amid the waste of shifting sands 
around ; 
The lapse of year and month and day 
and hour. 
Alike unf elt, perform th' unwearied 
round. 

How often hath yon day-god's burn- 
ing light. 
From the clear sapphire of his 
stainless heaven, 
Bathed their high peaks in noontide 
brilliance bright, 
Gilded at morn, and purpled them at 
even ! i 



THE DRUID'S PROPHECIES.^ 

MoNA ! with flame thine oaks are 
streaming. 
Those sacred oaks we rear'd on 
high : 
Lo ! Mona, lo ! the swords are gleaming 
Adown thine hills confusedly. 

Hark ! Mona, hark ! the chargers' 
neighing ! 
The clang of arms and helmets 
bright ! 
The crash of steel, the dreadful bray- 
ing 
Of trumpets thro' the madd'ning 
fight ! 

Exalt your torches, raise your voices ; 

Your thread is spun — your day is 
brief ; 
Yea ! howl for sorrow ! Rome rejoices. 

But Mona — Mona bends in grief! 

But woe to Rome, though now she 
raises 
Yon eagles of her haughty power ; 
Though now her sun of conquest 
blazes. 
Yet soon shall come her darkening 
hour ! 



Woe, woe to him who sits in glory. 
Enthroned on thine hills of pride ! 

Can he not see the poignard gory 
With his best heart's-blood deeply 
dyed 1 

1 See Savary's letters. 

- " Stabat pro littore diversa acies, densa 
arniis virisque, intercursantibus feminis in 
moduni Furiarum, qiise veste ferali, crinibus 
dejectis, faces prasferebant. iJruidjeque 
circum, preces diras, sublatis ad coelum ma- 
nibus, fuudentes," etc. — Tacit., Annal, xiv., 
C.30. 



710 



THE DRUID'S PROPHECIES. 



All ! what avails liis gikled palace, 
Whose wings the seven-hill'd town 
enfold ? 1 
The costly bath, the crystal chalice ? 
The pomp of gems, the glare of 
gold ? 

See where, by heartless anguish 

driven, 

Crownless he creeps 'mid circling 

thorns; '^ 

Aroimd him flash the bolts of heaven, 

And angry earth before him yawns.-' 

Then, from his pinnacle of splendor, 
The feeble king,* with locks of gray. 

Shall fall, and sovereign Rome shall 
render 
Her sceptre to the usurj^er's ^ sway. 

Who comes with sounds of mirth and 
gladness. 
Triumphing o'er the prostrate 
dead \ ^ 
A}', me ! thy mirth shall change to 
sadness. 
When Vengeance strikes thy guilty 
head. 

Above thy noonday feast suspended, 
High hangs in air a naked sword : 

Thy days are gone, thy joys are ended, 
The cup, the song, the festal board. 

Then shall the eagle's shadowy pinion 

Be spread beneath the eastern 

skies ; ^ 

And dazzling far with wide dominion. 

Five brilliant stars shall brightly 

rise.* 

Then, coward king ! ^ the helpless aged 
Shall bow beneath thy dastard 
blow; 

1 Pliny says that the golden palace of Jfero 
extended all round the city. 

- " Ut ad diverticulum ventum est, di- 
missis efiuis inter fruticeta ac vepres, per 
arundineti semitam isegre, nee nisi strata sub 
pedibus veste, ad adversiiin villas parietem 
evasit." — Sueton., Vit. Cwsar. 

3 " iStatimque tremore terras, et fulgure ad- 
verso pavefactus, aiidiit ex proximis castris 
clamorem," etc. — Ibid. 

i Galba. 

5 Otho. 

'■' " Utque canipos, in quibus pugnatum est, 
adiit [i.e. Vitellius] plurimum meri propa- 
lain hausit," etc. — Sueton. 

'' At the siege of Jerusalem. 

* The five good emperors: Nerva, Trajan, 
Adrian, Antoninus Pius, and Marcus Aure- 
lius, or Antoninus the Philosopher. Perhiips 
the best commentary on the life and virtues 
of the last is his own volume of " Medita- 
tions." 

" " Dcbiles pedibus, et eos, qui ambulare 
non possent, in gigantum modum, ita ut a 
genibus de pannis et lintels quasi dracones 
digererentur; eosdemque sftgitis confecit." — 
JEi.. Lamprid. in Vita Comm. Such wei'e 
the laudable amusements of Commodus ! 



But reckless hands and hearts, en- 
raged, 
By double fate shall lay thee low.^ 

And two,^ with death-wounds deeply 
mangled. 
Low on their parent earth shall lie ; 
Fond wretches ! ah ! too soon entan- 
gled 
Within the snares of royalty. 

Then comes that mighty one victorious 
In triumph o'er this earthly ball,^ 

Exulting in his conquests glorious — 
Ah ! glorious to his country's fall ! 

But thou shalt see the Romans flying, 

Albyn ! with yon dauntless 

ranks ; * 
And thou shalt view the Romans 
dying. 
Blue Carun ! on thy mossy banks. 

But lo ! what dreadful visions o'er me 
Are bursting on" this aged eye ! 

What length of bloody train before 
me 
In slow succession passes by ! ^ 

Thy hapless monarchs fall together, 
Like leaves in winter's stormy ire ; 
Some by the sword, and some shall 
wither 
By lightning's flame and fever's 
fire.'' 

They come ! they leave their frozen 
regions, 
Where Scandinavia's wilds extend ; 
And Rome, though girt with dazzling 
legions, 
Beneatl^ their blasting power shall 
bend. 

Woe, woe to Rome! though tall and 
ample 
She rears her domes of high re- 
nown ; 

1 He was first poisoned; but the operation 
not fully answering the wishes of his be- 
loved, he was afterward strangled by a 
robust wrestler. 

- Pertinax and Didius Julian. 

3 Severus, who was equally victorius in 
the Eastern and Western World : but those 
conquests, however glorious, were conducive 
to the ruin of the Roman Empire. — See 
Gibbon, vol. vi., chap, v., p. 203. 

* In allusion to the real or feigned victory 
obtained by Fingal over Caracul, or Cara- 
calla. — See OssiAN. 

^ Very few of the emperors after Severus 
escaped assassination. 

•' Macrinus, Heliogabalus, Alexander, Max- 
imin Pupienus, Balbinus, Oordian, Philip, 
etc., were assassinated; Claudius died of a 
pestilential fever; and Carus was struck 
dead by lightning in his teut. 



LINES. 



711 



Yet fiery Goths shall fiercely trample 
The grandeur of her temples down ! 

She sinks to dust; and who shall pity 
Her dark despair and hopeless 
groans ? 
There is a wailing in her city — 
Her babes are dash'd against the 
stones ! 

Then, Mona ! then, though wan and 
blighted 
Thy hopes be now by Sorrow's 
dearth. 
Then all thy wrongs shall be re- 
quited — 
The Queen of Nations bows to 
earth ! 



LINES.' 
The eye must catch the point that 
shows 
The pensile dew-drop's twinkling 
gleam, 
Where on the trembling blade it 
glows, 
Or hueless hangs the liquid gem. 

Thus do some minds unmark'd appear 
By aught that's generous or divine. 

Unless we view them in the sphere 
Where with their fullest light they 
shine. 

Occasion — circumstance — give birth 
To charms that else unheeded lie. 

And call the latent virtues forth 
To break upon the wond'ring eye. 

E'en he your censure has enroU'd 
So rashly with the cold and dull, 

Waits but occasion to unfold 
An ardor and a force of soul. 

Go then, impetuous youth, deny 
The presence of the orb of day, 

Because November's cloudy sky 
Transmits not his resplendent ray. 

Time, and the passing throng of 
things. 

Full well the mould of minds betray. 
And each a clearer prospect brings : — 

Suspend thy judgment for a day. 



SWISS SONG. 

1 LOVE St. Gothard's head of snows. 

That shoots into the sky, 
Where, yet unform'd, in grim repose 

Ten thousand avalanciies lie. 

' To one who entertained a light oi^inion 
of an eminent character, because too iniija- 
tient to wait for ifs gradual development. 



I love Lucerne's transparent lake. 

And Jura's hills of pride, 
Whence infant rivers, gusliing, break 

With small and scanty tide. 

And thou, Mont Blanc ! thou mighty 
pile 

Of crags and ice and snow ; 
The Gallic foes in wonder smile 

That we should love thee so ! 

But we were nurst within thy breast. 
And taught to brave thy storms : 

Thy tutorage was well confest 
Against the Frank in arms — 

The Frank who basely, proudly came 
To rend us from our home, 

With flashing steel and wasting 
flame. — 
How could he, dare he come ? 



THE EXPEDITION OF NADIR 
SHAH INTO HINDOSTAN. 

" Quoi ! vous allez combattre un roi, dont la 

puissance • 
Semble forcer le ciel de prendre sa defense. 
Sous qui toute I'Asie a vu tombre ses vois 
Et qui tient la foj'tuue attaohee il ses lois ! " 
— Racine's Alexandre. 
" Squallent populalibus agri." 

— Olaudian. 

As the host of the locusts in numbers, 

in miglit 
As the flames of the forest that redden 

the night. 
They approach : but the eye may not 

dwell on the glare 
Of standard and sabre that sparkle in 

air. 



Like the fiends of destruction they 

rush on their way, 
The vulture behind them is wild for 

his prey ; 
And the spirits of death, and the 

demons of wrath, 
Wave the gloom of their wings o'er 

their desolate path. 

Earth trembles beneath them, the 
dauntless, the bold ; 

Oh ! weep for thy children, thou re- 
gion of gold ; 1 

For thy thousands are bow'd to the 
dust of the plain, 

And all Delhi runs red with the 
blood of her slain. 

' This invader required as a ransom for 
Mohammed 8hah no less than thirty millions, 
and amassed in the rich city of Delhi the 
enormous sum of two hundred and thirty- 
one millions sterling. Others, however, dif- 
fer considerably iu their account of this 
treasure. 



712 



GREECE. 



For thy glory is past, and thy splen- 
dor is dim, 

And the cup of thy sorrow is full to 
the brim ; 

And where is the chief in thy realms 
to abide. 

The " Monarch of Nations," ^ the 
strength of his pride ? . 

Like a tliousand dark streams from 

the mountain they throng, 
With the fife and the horn and the 

war-beating gong : 
The land like an Eden before them 

is fair. 
But behind them a wilderness dreary 

and bare.^ 

The shrieks of the orphan, the lone 

widow's wail, 
The groans of the childless, are loud 

on the gale ; 
For the star of thy glory is blasted 

and wan, 
And wither'd tlae flower of thy fame, 

Hindostan ! 



GREECE. 

" Exoritur clamorque vicum, clangorque 
tubarum." — Vikgil. 

What wakes the brave of yon isle- 
throng'd wave ? 
And why does the trumpet bray ? 
And the tyrant groan on his gory 
throne. 
In fear and wild dismay ? 

Why, he sees the hosts around his 
coasts 
Of those who will be free ; 
And he views the bands of trampled 
lands 
In a dreadful league agree. 

"Revenge ! " they call, " for one, for 
all- 
in the page of song and story 
Be their name erased, and ours re- 
placed 
In all its pristine glory ! 

"Too long in pain has Slavery's chain 
Our listless limbs encumber'd ; 

^Such pompous epithets the Oriental 
writers are accustomed to bestow on their 
monarchs; of which sufficient specimens may 
he seen in Sir William Jones's translation of 
the " History of Nadir Shah." We can 
scarcely read one page of this work without 
meeting with such sentences as these : " Le roi 
des rois; " " Les elendards qui subjuguent le 
monde ; " " L'ame rayonnante de sa majesty ; " 
" Le rayonnant monarque du monde; " "vSa 
majeste conquerante du monde: " etc. 

2 "The land is as the trarden of Eden 
before them, and behind them a desolate 
wilderness." — Joel. 



Too long beneath her freezing breath 
Our torpid souls have slumber'd. 

" But now we rise — the great, the 
wise 
Of ages past inspire us ! 
Oh ! what could inflame our love of 
fame. 
If that should fail to fire us ? 

" Let Cecrops' town of old renown 
Her bands and chieftains muster ; 

With joy unsheathe the blade of 
death, 
And crush the foes who crush'd her! 

" We come, we come, with trump and 
drum. 
To smite the hand that smote us, 
And spread the blaze of freedom's 
rays 
From Athens to Eurotas ! " 



THE MAID OF SAVOY. 

Down Savoy's hills of stainless white 

A thousand currents run, 
And sparkle bright in the early light 
Of the slowly-rising sun : 
But brighter far, 
Like the glance of a star 
From regions above. 
Is the look of love 

In the eye of the Maid of 
Savoy ! 

Down Savoy's hills of lucid snow 

A thousand roebucks leap. 
And headlong they go when the 
bugles blow, 
And sound from steep to steep : 
But lighter far, 
Like the motion of air 
On the smooth river's bed, 
Is the noiseless tread 

Of the foot of the Maid of 
Savoy ! 

In Savoy's vales, with green array'd, 

A thousand blossoms flower, 
'Neath the odorous shade \)\ the 
larches made. 
In their own ambrosial bower : 
But sweeter still, 
Like tlie cedars which rise 
On Lebanon's hill 
.To the pure blue skies. 

Is the breath of the Maid of 
Savoy ! 

In Savoy's groves full merrily sing 

A thousand songsters gay, 
When the breath of spring calls them 
forth on the wing. 



MIDNIGHT. 



•13 



To sport in the sun's mild ray : 
But softer far, 
Like the holy song 
Of angels in air, 
When they sweep along, 

Is the voice of the Maid of 
Savoy ! 



IGXOEANCE OF MODERN 
EGYPT. 
Day's genial beams expand the flowers 
That bloom in Damietta's bowers ; 
Buneath the night's descending dew 
Tlicy close those leaves of finest hue : 
So Science droops in Egypt's land. 
Beneath the Turkisii despot's hand ; 
Tlie damps of Ignorance and Pride 
Close up its leaves, its beauties hide : 
The morrow's rays her flowers may 

AVOO — 

Is tlicre no ray for Science too 1 



MIDNIGHT. 

'Tis midnight o'er tlie dim mere's 
lonely bosom, 
Dark, dusky, windy midnight : swift 
are driven 
Tlie swelling vapors onward : every 
blossom 
Batlies its bright petals in the tears 
of lieaven. 
Imperfect, half-seen objects meet the 
sight. 
The other half our fancy must 
portray ; 
A wan, dull, lengthen'd sheet of 
swimming light 
Lies the broad lake : the moon con- 
ceals her ray. 
Sketch 'd faintly by a pale and lurid 
gleam 
Shot thro' the glimmering clouds : 
the lovely planet 
Is shrouded in obscurity ; the scream 
Of owl is silenced ; and the rocks of 
granite 
Else tall and drearily, while damp 

and dank 
Hang the thick willows on the reedy 

bank. 
Beneath, the gurgling eddies slowly 
creep, 
Blacken'd hy foliage ; and the glut- 
ting wave, 
That saps eternally the cold gray 
steep. 
Sounds heavily within the hollow 
cave. 
All earth is restless — from his glossy 
wing 1 

' The succeeding lines are a paraphrase of 
Ossian. 



The heath-fowl lifts his head at 

intervals ; 
Wet, driving, rainy, come the burst- 
ing squalls ; 
All nature wears her dun dead cover- 
ing. 
Tempest is gather'd, and the brooding 

storm 
Spreads its black mantle o'er the 

mountain's form ; 
And, mingled with the rising roar, i.'^ 

swelling. 
From the far hunter's booth, tlu' 

blood-hound's yelling, 
The water-falls in various cadence 
chiming. 
Or in one loud unbroken sheet 
descending. 
Salute each other thro' the night's 
dark womb ; 
The moaning pine-trees to the wild 
blast bending. 
Are pictured faintly thro' the 
chequer'd gloom ; 
The forests, half-way up the mountain 
climbing. 
Resound with crash of falling bran- 
ches ; quiver 
Their aged mossy trunks : the 
startled doe 
Leaps from her leafy lair : the 
swelling river 
Winds his broad stream majestic, 
deep, and slow. 



"IN SUMMER, WHEN ALL 
NATURE GLOWS." 

" N.ituro in every form inspires delight." 

— COWPER. 

In summer, when all nature glows. 
And lends its fragrance to the rose, 
And tints the sky with deeper blue. 
And copious sheds the fruitful dew ; 
When odors come with every gale, 
And nature holds her carnival ; 
When all is bright and pure and calm. 
The smallest herb or leaf can charm 
The man whom nature's beauties warm. 

The glitt'ring tribes of insects gay. 
Disporting in their jiarent-ray. 
Each full of life and careless joy. 
He views with i^hilosophic e^e : 
For well he knows the glorious Hand, 
That bade th' eternal mountains stand. 
And spread the vast and heaving main, 
And studded heaven's resplendent 

plain. 
Gave life to nature's humbler train. 

Nor less admires his mighty pow'r 
In the fine organs of a flow'r, 



ri4 



^BORXE ON LIGHT WINGS OF BUOYANT DOWN: 



Than when he bids the thunder roll, 
Rebellowing o'er the stormy pole ; 
Or launches forth his bolts of fire 
On the lost objects of his ire ; 
Or withthe yawning earthquake shocks 
The reeling hills and shatter'd rocks, 
And every mortal project mocks. 

No skeptic he — who bold essays 
T' unravel all the mystic maze 
Of the Creator's mighty plan — 
A task beyond tlie povv'rs of man ; 
Who, when his reason fails to soar 
High as his will, believes no more — 
No! — calmly thro' the world he steals. 
Nor seeks to trace what God conceals, 
Content with what that God reveals. 



SCOTCH SONG. 

There are tears o' pity, an' tears o' 

wae. 
An' tears for excess o' joy will fa', 

Yet the tears o' luve are sweeter than a' ! 

There are sighs o' pity, an' sighs o' 

wae, 
An' sighs o' regret frae the saul will 

gae ; 
Yet the sighs o' luve are sweeter than a' I 

There's the look o' pity, the look o' 

wae. 
The look o' frien', an' the look o' fae ; 
Yet the look o' luve is sweeter than a' ! 

There's the smile o' friends when they 

come frae far, 
There's the smile o' joy in the festive 

ha' ; 
Yet the smile o' luve is sweeter than a' ! 



"BORNE ON LIGHT WINGS OF 
BUOYANT DOWN." 

" Nunc mihi, nunc alii benigna." 

— Horace. 

Borne on light wings of buoyant down. 
Mounts the hoar thistle-beard aloft ; 

An air scarce felt can bear it on, 
A touch propel, tho' e'er so soft : 

Dislodged from yonder thistle's head, 

Upon the passing gale it fled. 

See ! to each object on its way 
A faithless moment it adheres ; 

But if one 1)reeze upon it play. 

Breaks its slight bonds and dis- 
appears : 

Its silken sail each zephyr catches, 

A breath its airy hold detaches. 

The man who wins thy love awhile. 
Should never dream it will remain ; 



For one fond word, one courteous 
smile, 
AVill set thy heart afloat again. 
But he whose eye the light can chase. 
That sports above the trembling vase. 

Attend its roving sheen, pursue 

Its rapid movements here and there, 

And with a firm unwavering view 
Arrest the fleeting phantom fair. 

May fix inconstancy — ensure 

Thy love, thy fickle faith secure ! 

How many have — for many ask — 
The kiss I fondly deem'd my own ! 

And hundreds in succession bask 
In eye-beams due to me alone : 

Tho' all, like me, in turn must prove 

The wandering nature of thy love. 

Thou saw'st the glow-worm on our 
way. 
Last eve, with mellow lustre shine — 
Clad in ijellucid flame she lay. 

And glimmer'dinher amber shrine — 
Would that those eyes of heavenly 

blue 
Were half as faithful and as true ! 

And lo! the blush, quick mantling, 
breaks 

In rich suffusion o'er thy cheek ; 
In sudden vermeil Conscience speaks, 

No further, fuller proof I seek: 
The rosy herald there was sent. 
To bid thee own it and repent. 



SONG. 
It is the solemn even-time. 

And the holy organ's pealing : 
And the vesper chime, oh ! the vesper 
chime ! 
O'er the clear blue wave is stealing. 

It is the solemn mingled swell 
Of the monks in chorus singing : 

And the vesper bell, oh ! the vesper 
bell! 
To the gale is its soft note flinging. 

'Tis the sound of the voices sweeping 
along. 
Like the wind thro' a grove of 
larches : 
And the vesper song, oh ! the vesper 
song! 
Echoes sad thro' the cloister'd 
arches. 



"THE STARS OF YON BLUE 
PLACID SKY." 
"... Bupercminet omnes." — Virgii,.- 
The stars of yon blue placid sky 



FRIENDSHIP. 



715 



In vivid thousands burn, 
And beaming from their orbs on high, 

<>n radiant axes turn : 
The eye with wonder gazes there, 
And could but gaze on sight so fair. 

But should a comet, brighter still. 

His blazing train unfold 
Among the many lights that fill 

The sapphirine with gold ; 
More wonder then would one bestow 
Than millions of a meaner glow. 

E'en so, sweet maid! thy beauties 

shine 
With liglit so peerless and divine. 
That others, Avho have charm 'd before. 
When match'd with thee, attract no 

more. 



FRIENDSHIP. 

"27eqiie ego mine de vulgari aut de medio- 
cri, quae tamen ipsa et deleetat et prodest, 
sed de vera et perfecta loquor [amicitial 
quails eorum, qui pauci nominantur, fuit." 

— CiCEEO. 

O THOU most holy Friendship ! where- 
so'er 
Thy dwelling be - for in the courts 
of man 
But seldom thine all-heavenly voice 
we hear, 
Sweet'ning the moments of our nar- 
row span ; 
And seldom thy bright footsteps do 
we scan 
Along the weary waste of life unblest. 
For faithless is its frail and way- 
ward plan, 
And perfidy is man's eternal guest. 
With dark suspicion link'd and shame- 
less interest ! 

'Tis thine, when life has reach'd its 
final goal. 
Ere the last sigh that frees the mind 
be giv'n. 
To speak sweet solace to the parting 
soul. 
And pave the bitter path that leads 

to heav'n : 
'Tis thine, whene'er the heart is 
rack'd and riv'n 
By the hot shafts of baleful calumny, 
When the dark spirit to despair is 
driv'n. 
To teach its lonely grief to lean on 

thee. 
And pour within thine ear the tale of 
misery. 

But where art thou, thOu comet of an 
age, 
Thou phoenix of a century 7 Per- 
chance 



Thou art but of those fables which 
engage 
And hold the minds of men in giddy 

trance. 
Yet, be it, so, and be it all romance, 
The thought of thine existence is so 
briglit 
With beautiful imaginings — the 
glance 
Upon thy fancfed being such delight, 
That I will deem thee Truth, so lovely 
is thy might ! 



ON THE DEATH OF MY GRAND- 
MOTHER. 

" Cui pudor et jiistitiae soror 
Incoirupta fldes nudaque Veritas, 
Quaudo uUum invenieut pareni > " 

— Horace, 
There on lier bier she sleeps ! 
E'en yet her face its native sweetness 

keeps. 
Ye need not mourn above that faded 

form. 
Her soul defies the ravage of the 

worm ; 
Her better half has sought its heav- 
enly rest, 
Unstain'd, unharm'd, unfetter'd, un- 

opprest ; 
And far above all worldly pain and 

woe, 
She sees that God she almost saw be- 
low. 
She trod the path of virtue from her 

birth, 
And finds in Heaven what she sought 

on earth ; 
She wins the smile of her eternal King, 
And sings his praise where kindre^d 

angels sing. 
Her holy patience, her unshaken faith. 
How well they smooth'd the rugged 

path of Death ! 
She met his dread approach without 

alarm. 
For Heaven in prospect makes the 

spirit calm. 
In steadfast trust and Christian virtue 

strong, 
Hope on her brow, and Jesus on her 

tongue ; 
Her faith, like Stephen's, soften'd her 

distress — 
Scarce less her anguish, scarce her 
patience less ! 



"AND ASK ME WHY THESE 

SAD TEARS STREAM ? " 

"Te somnia nostra reducunt."— Ovid. 

And ask ye why these sad t^ars 

stream ? 



716 



ON SUBLIMITY. 



Why these wan ej'es are dim witli 
weeping 1 
I had a dream — a lovelj' dream, 
Of her that in the grave is sleeping. 

I saw her as 'twas yesterday, 

The bloom upon her cheek still 
glowing ; 
And round her play'd a golden ray, 
And on her brows were gay flowers 
blowing. 

AYith angel-hand she swept a lyre, 
A garland red with roses bound it ; 

Its strings were wreath'd with lambent 
fire. 
And amaranth was woven round it. 

I saw her mid the realms of light, 
In everlasting radiance gleaming ; 

Co-equal with the seraphs bright, 
Mid thousand thousand angels 
beaming. 

I strove to reach her, when, behold. 
Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian, 

And all that rich scene wrapt in gold 
Faded in air — a lovely vision ! 

And I awoke, but oh ! to me 

That waking hour was doubly 
weary ; 
And yet I could not envy thee, 

Although so blest, and I so dreary. 



ON SUBLIMITY. 

" The sublime always dwells on great 
objects aud terrible." — Bubke. 

O TELL me not of vales in tenderest 
green, 
The poplar's shade, the plantain's 
graceful tree ; 
Give me the wild cascade, the rugged 
scene, 
The loud surge bursting o'er the 
purple sea : 
On such sad views my soul delights to 
pore. 
By Tencriffe's peak, or Kilda's giant 
height. 
Or dark Loffoden's melancholy shore, 
AVhat time gray eve is fading into 
night ; 
When by that twilight beam I scarce 

descry 
The mingled shades of earth and sea 
and sky. 

Give me to wander at midnight alone, 
, Through some august cathedral, 

where, from high, 
The cold, clear moon on tiie mosaic 
stone 
Comes glancing in gay colors glori- 
ously, 



Through windows rich with gorgeous 

blazonry, 
Gilding the niches dim, where, side 

by side, 
Stand antique mitred ijrelates, wiiose 

bones lie 
Beneath the pavement, where their 

deeds of pride 
Were graven, but long since are worn 

away 
By constant feet of ages day by day. 

Then, as Imagination aids, I hear 
Wild heavenly voices sounding from 
the choir, 
And more than mortal music meets 
mine ear, 
Whose long, long notes among the 
tombs expire, 
With solemn rustling of cherubic 
wings, 
Round those vast columns which 
the roof upbear ; 
While sad and undistinguisiuible 
things 
Do flit athwart the moonlit windows 
there ; 
And my blood curdles at the chilling 

sound 
Of lone, miearthly steps, that pace 
the hallow'd ground ! 

I love the starry spangled heav'n, re- 
sembling 
A canopy with fiery gems o'erspread, 
When the wide loch with silvery 
sheen is trembling. 
Far stretch'd beneath tlie moim- 
tain's hoary head. 
But most I love that sky, when, dark 
with storms. 
It frowns terrific o'er this wilder'd 
earth. 
While the black clouds, in strange 
and uncouth forms, 
Come hurrying onward in their 

ruinous wrath ; 
And shrouding in their deep and 
gloomy robe 
The burning ej'^es of heav'n and 
Dian's lucid globe ! 

I love your, voice, ye echoing winds, 
that sweep 
Thro' the wide womb of midnight, 
when the veil 
Of darkness rests upon the mighty 
deep, 
The laboring vessel, and the shat- 
ter 'd sail — 
Save when the forked bolts of light 
ning leap 
On flashing pinions, and the mari- 
ner pale 
Raises his eyes to heav'n. Oh ! who 
would sleep 



ON SUBLIMITY. 



in 



What time the rushing of the angry j 

gale 
Is loud upon the waters ? — Hail, all 

hail ! 
Tempest and clouds and night and 

thunder's rending peal ! 

All hail, Suhlimity ! thou lofty one, 
For thou dost walk upon the blast, 
and gird 
Thy majesty with terrors, and thy 
throne 
Is on the whirlwind, and thy voice 
is heard 
In thunders and in shakings : thy de- 
light 
Is in the secret wood, the blasted 
heath, 
The ruin'd fortress, and the dizzy 
height. 
The grave, the ghastly charnel- 
house of death, 
In vaults, in cloisters, and in gloomy 

piles. 
Long corridors and towers and soli- 
tary aisles ! 

Thy joy is in obscurity, and plain 
Is naught with thee ; and on thy 
steps attend 
Shadows but half distinguish'd ; the 
thin train 
Of hovering spirits round thy path- 
way bend. 
With their low tremulous voice and 
airy tread,^ 
What time the tomb above them 
j'awns and gapes : 
For thou dost hold communion with 
the dead 
Phantoms and phantasies and grisly 
shapes ; 
And shades and headless spectres of 

St. Mark,- 
Seen by a lurid light, formless and 
still and dark! 

What joy to view the varied rainbow 
smile 
On Niagara's flopd of matchless 
might. 
Where all around the melancholy isle ^ 
The billows- sparlcle with their hues 
of light ! 
While, as the restless surges roar and 
I'ave, 

1 According to Burke, a low, tremulous, 
intermitted sound is conducive to the sublime. 

- It is a received opinion, that on St. Mark's 
Eve all the persons who are to die in the fol- 
lowing year make their appearances without 
their heads in the churches of their respec- 
tive parishes. See Dr. Langhorne's Notes to 
Collins. 

* This island, on both sides of which the 
waters rush with astonishint; swiftness, is 
900 or 800 feet long, and its lower edge is just 
at the periJendicular edge of the fall. 



The arrowy stream descends with 
awful sound. 
Wheeling and whirling with each 
breathless wave.^ 
Immense, sublime, magnificent, pro- 
found ! 
If thou iiast seen all this, and could'st 

not feel. 
Then know, thine heart is framed of 

marble or of steel. 
The hurricane fair earth to darkness 
changing, 
Kentucky's chambers of eternal 
gloom,''' 
The swift-paced columns of the desert 
ranging 
Th' uneven waste, the violent Si- 
moom, 
Thy snow-clad peaks, stupendous Gun- 
gotree ! 
Whence springs the hallow'd Jum- 
na's echoing tide. 
Hoar Cotopaxi's cloud-capt majesty. 
Enormous Chimborazo's naked 
pride. 
The dizzy cape of winds that cleaves 

the sky,'' 
Whence we look down into eternity. 

The pillar'd cave of Morven's giant 
king,* 
The Yanar,5 and the Geyser's boil- 
ing fountain. 
The deep volcano's inward murmur- 
ing. 
The shadowy Colossus of the moun- 
tain ; '^ 
Antiparos, where sunbeams never en- 
ter; 
Loud Stromboli, amid the quaking 
isles ; 
The terrible Maelstrom, around his 
centre 
Wheeling his circuit of unnumber'd 
miles : 
These, these are sights and sounds that 
freeze the blood, 

i"Undis Phlegethon perlustrat anhelis." 

— C'LAUDIAN. 

2 See Dr. Xahum Ward's account of the 
great Kentucky cavern, in the Monthly 
Magazine, October, 1816. 
•'in the Ukraine. 

■•Fingal's Cave in the Island of Staffa. If 
the Colossus of Khodes bestrid a hai-bor, Fin- 
gal's powers were certainly far from despic- 
able: 

Achos air Cromleach druim-ard 
Chos eile air Cronimeal dubh 
Thoga Fion Ic lamb mhoir 
An d'uisge o Lubhair na fruth. 

With one foot on Cromleach his brow, 
The other on Cronimeal the dark, 
Fion took up with his large hand 
The water from Lubhair of streams. 

See the Dissertations prefixed to Ossian's 
Poems. 
5 Or perpetual fire. 
"Alias, the Spectre of the Broken. 



•IS 



THE DEITY. 



Yet charm the awe-struck soul wliich 
doats on solitude. 

Blest be the bard, whose willing feet 
rejoice 
To tread the emerald green of Fan- 
cy's vales. 
Who hears the music of her heav- 
enly voice, 
And breathes the rapture of her 
nectar'd gales ! 
Blest be the bard, whom golden Fancy 
loves, 
He strays forever thro' her bloom- 
ing bowers, 
Amid tlie rich profusion of her groves, 
And wreathes his forehead with her 
spicy flowers 
Of sunny radiance ; but how blest is he 
Who feels the genuine force of high 
Sublimity ! 



THE DEITY. 

• Immutable — immortal — 



infinite! " 
— Milton. 



Where is the wonderful abode. 
The holy, secret, searchless shrine. 

Where dwells the immaterial God, 
The all-pervading and benign ? 

Oh that he were reveal'd to me, 
Fully and palpably display'd 

In all the awful majesty 

Of Heaven's consummate pomp ar- 
ray'd — 

How would the overwhelming light 
Of his tremendous presence beam! 

And how insufferably briglit 

Would the broad glow of glory 
stream ! 

What tho' this flesh would fade like 
grass, 

Before tli' intensity of day ? 
One glance at Him who always was, 

The fiercest pangs would well repay. 

When Moses on the mountain's brow 
Had met tii' Eternal face to face. 

While anxious Israel stood below, 
Wond'ring and trembling at its 
base ; 

His visage, as he downward trod, 
Shone starlike on the shrinking 
crowd. 
With lustre borrow'd from his God : 
They could not brook it, and they 
bow'd. 

The mere reflection of the blaze 
That lighten'd round creation's 
Lord, 

Was too puissant for their gaze ; 
And he that caught it was adored. 



Then how ineffably august, 

How passing wond'rous must He 
be, 
Whose presence lent to earthly dust 

Such permanence of brilliancy ! 

Throned in sequester'd sanctity, 
And with transcendent glories 
crown'd ; 
With all His works beneath His eye. 
And suns and systems burning 
round, — 

How shall I hymn Him ? How asjiire 
His holy Name with song to blend. 

And bid my rash and feeble lyre 
To such an awless flight ascend ? 



THE EEIGN OF LOVE. 

" In freta dum fluvii current," etc. 

— ViKGIL. 

While roses boast a purple dye. 
While seas obey the blast, 

Or glowing rainbows sjjan the sky — 
The reign of love shall last. 

While man exults o'er present joy, 
Or mourns o'er joy that's past, 

Feels virtue soothe, or vice alloy — 
The reign of love shall last. 

While female charms attract the 
mind. 

In moulds of beauty cast ; 
While man is warm, or woman kind — 

The reiffu of love shall last. 



'TIS THE VOICE OF THE 
DEAD." 



' Non omnis moriar. 



-Horace. 



'Tis the voice of the dead 

From the depth of their glooms : 
Hark ! they call me away 

To the world of the tombs ! 
I come, lo ! I come 

To your lonely abodes, 
For my dust is the earth's 

But this soul is my God's ! 

Thine is not the triumph, 

invincible Death ! 
Thou hast not prevail'd, 

Tho' I yield thee my breath ; 
Thy sceptre shall wave 

O'er a fragment of clay, 
But my spirit, thou tyrant. 

Is bounding away ! 

I fear not, I feel not 

The pang that destroys, 
In the bliss of that thouglit — 



TIME: AN ODE. 



(19 



Tliat tlie blest shall rejoice : 
For why should I shrink ? 

One moment shall sever 
My soul from its chain, 

Then it liveth forever ! 

Then weep not for me, 

Tho' I sink, I shall rise ; 
I shall live, tho' I sleep — 

'Tis the guilty who dies. 
E'en now in mine ear 

'Tis a seraph who sings : 
Farewell ! — for I go 

On the speed of his wings ! 



TIME : AN ODE. 

I SEE tlie chariot, where, 
Throughout the purple air. 
The forelock'd monarcli rides : 
Arm'd like some antique vehicle for 

war, 
Time, hoary Time ! I see thy scythed 

car, 
In voiceless majesty. 
Cleaving the clouds of ages that float 

by, 

And change their many-color'd 
sides, 
Kovv dark, now dun, now richly 

bright. 
In an ever-varying light. 
The great, the lowly, and the brave 
Bow down before the rushing 

force 
Of thine unconquerable course ; 
Thy wheels are noiseless as the 
grave, 
Yet fleet as Heaven's red bolt they 

hurry on, 
They pass above us, and are gone ! 

Clear is the track which thou hast 
past ; 
Strew'd with the wrecks of frail 

renown. 
Robe, sceptre, banner, wreath, and 

crown, 
The pathway that before thee 
lies. 
An undistinguishable waste, 
Invisible to human eyes, 
"Which fain would scan the various 
shapes which glide 
In dusky cavalcade. 
Imperfectly descried. 

Through that intense, impene- 
trable shade. 

Four gray steeds thy chariot draw ; 
In th' obdurate, tameless jaw 

Their rusted iron bits tliey sternly 
champ ; 

Ye may not hear the eclioing tramp 



Of their light-bounding, windy 

feet. 
Upon that cloudy pavement beat. 
Four wings have each, which, far out- 
spread, 
Receive the many blasts of hear'n. 
As with unwearied speed. 

Throughout the long extent of ether 
driv'n. 
Onward they rush forever and for 
aye: 
Thy voice, thou mighty Charioteer! 
Always sounding in their ear. 
Throughout the gloom of night and 
heat of day. 

Fast behind thee follows Death, 

Thrf)' the ranks of wan and weeping, 
That yield their miserable breath, 
On with his pallid courser proudly 
sweeping. 
Arm'd is he in full mail ^ 

Bright breastplate and high crest. 
Nor is the trenchant falchion 
wanting : 
So fiercely does he ride the gale. 
On Time's dark car, before him, 
rest 
The dew-drops of the charger's 
panting. 

On, on they go along the boundless 
skies. 
All human grandeur fades away 
Before their flashing, fierj', hollow 
eyes ; 
Beneath the terrible control 
Of those vast armed orbs, wdiich 
roll 
Oblivion on tlie creatures of a day. 
Those sjilendid monuments alone he 
spares 
Which, to her deathless votaries. 
Bright Fame, with glowing hand, up- 

rears 
Amid the waste of countless years. 

" Live ye ! " to these he crietli ; " live ! 
To ye eternity I give — 
Ye, upon whose blessed birth 

The noblest star of heaven hath 
shone ; 
Live, when the ponderous pyramids of 
earth 
Are crumbling in oblivion ! 
Live, when, wrapt in sullen shade, 
The golden hosts of heaven shall 

fade; 
Live, when j^on gorgeous sun on high 
Shall veil the sparkling of his eye! 
Live, when imperial Time and Death 
himself shall die ! " 

1 1 am indebted for the idea of Death's 
armor to that famous chorus in " Caracta- 
cus " beginning with — 
" Hark ! heard ye not that footstep dread ? " 



720 



ALL JO YOUS IN THE REALMS OF DA Y.' 



GOD'S DENUNCIATIONS 

AGAINST PHAllAOH- 

HOPHRA, OR 

APRIES. 

Tirou beast of the flood, who liast 
said in tliy soul, 

" I have made me a stream that for- 
ever shall roll ! "^ 

Thy strength is the flower that shall 
last but a day. 

And thy might is the snow in the 
sun's burning ray. 

Arm, arm from the east, Babylonia's 

son ! 
Arm, arm, for the battle — - the Lord 

leads thee on ! 
With the shield of thy fame, and tlie 

power of thy pride, 
Arm, arm in thy glory — tlie Lord is 

thy guide. 

Thou shalt come like a storm M'hen 

the moonlight is dim. 
And the lake's gloomy bosom is full 

to the brim ; 
Thou shalt come like the flash in tlie 

darkness of night, 
"Wlien the wolves of the forest sliall 

howl for affright. 

"Woe, woe to thee, Tanis ! - thy babes 

shall be thrown 
By the barbarous hands on tlie cold 

marble-stone : 
"Woe, woe to thee, Nile ! for thy 

stream shall be red 
AVitli the blood that shall gusli o'er 

thy billowy bed ! 

Woe, woe to thee, Memphis ! - the 

war-cry is near. 
And the child shall be toss'd on the 

murderer's spear ; 
For fiercely he comes in the day of 

his ire. 
With wlieels like a whirlwind, and 

chariots of fire ! 



" ALL JOYOUS IN THE REALMS 
OF DAY." 

" Hominum divomque pater." — Virgil. 

All joyous in the realms of day. 
The radiant angels sing, 

1" Pliny's reproach to the Egyptians, for 
their vain and foolish pride with regard to 
the inundations of the Nile, points out one of 
their most distinguishing characteristics, and 
recalls to my mind a tine passage of Ezekiel, 
where God thus speaks to Pharaoh, one of 
their kings: Behold, I am against thee, 
Pharaoh king of Egypt, the great dragon 
that lieth in the midst of his riveru, that hath 
said, My river is mine own, and I have made 
it for myself." — Roli,in,vo1. i., p. 216. 

- The Scriptural appellations arc " Zoan " 
and " Noph." 



In incorruptible array, 
Before the Eternal King : 

Who, hymn'd by archangelic tongues, 

In majesty and might. 
The subject of ten thousand songs, 

Sits veil'd in circling light. 

Benignly great, serenely dread, 

Amid th' immortal choir, 
IIow glory plays around his head 

In rays of heavenly fire ! 

Before the blaze of Deity 
The deathless legions bend. 

And to the grand co-equal Three 
Their choral homage lend. 

They laud that God, who lias no 
peers. 

High — holy — searchless — pure ; 
Who has endured for countless jx-ars. 

And ever will endure : 

Who spoke, and fish, fowl, beast, in 
pairs, 
Or swam, or flew, or trod ; 
Space glitter'd with unnumber'd 
stars, 
And heaving oceans flow'd. 

Then let us join our feeble praise 
To that which angels give ; 

And hymns to that great Parent 
raise. 
In whom we breathe and live ! 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

" "UHien all is o'er, it is humbling to tread 
O'er the weltering field of the tombless 
dead ! " — Bykon. 

The heat and the chaos of contest are 

o'er. 
To mingle no longer — to madden no 

more : 
And the cold forms of heroes are 

stretch'd on the plain; 
Those lips cannot breathe thro' the 

trumpet again ! 

For the globes of destruction have 

shatter'd their might, 
The swift and the burning — and 

wrapt them in night : 
Like lightning, electric and sudden 

they came ; 
They took but their life, and they left 

them their fame ! 

I heard, oh ! I heard, when, with bar- 
barous bray, 

They leapt from the mouth of the 
cannon away ; 

And the loud-rushing sound of their 
passage in air 

Seem'd to speak in a terrible language 
— " Beware ! " 



THE THUNDER-STORM. 



721 



Farewell to ye, chieftains ; to one and 

to all' 
Who this (lay have perish'd by sahre 

or hall ; 
Ye cannot awake from your desolate 

sleep — 
Unbroken and silent and dreamless 

and deep ! 



THE TIIUNDER-STORM. 

" Nou imitabile fulmen." — Virgil. 

The storm is brooding ! — I would see 

it pass, 
Observe its tenor, and its jirogress 

trace. 
How dark and dun the gathering 

clouds appear. 
Their rolling thunders seem to rend 

the ear! 
But faint at first, they slowly, sternly 

rise. 
From mutt'rings low to peals which 

rock the skies, 
As if at first their fury they forbore. 
And nursed their terrors for a closing 

roar. 
And hark ! they rise into a loftier 

sound. 
Creation's trembling objects quake 

around ; 
In silent awe the subject-nations hear 
Th' appalling crash of elemental war : 
The lightning too each eye in dim- 
ness shrouds. 
The fiery progeny of clashing clouds. 
That carries death upon its blazing 

wing. 
And the keen tortures of th' electric 

sting : 
Not like the harmless flash on sum- 
mer's eve 
(When no rude blasts their silent 

slumbers leave), 
Which, like a radiant vision to the eye. 
Expands serenely in the placid sky ; 
It rushes fleeter than the swiftest wind, 
And bids attendant thunders wait be- 
hind : 
Quick — forked — livid, thro' the air 

it flies, 
A moment blazes — dazzles — bursts 

— and dies : 
Another, and another yet, and still 
To each replies its own allotted peal. 
But see, at last, its force and fury 

spent, 
The tempest slackens, and the clouds 

are rent : 
How sweetly opens on th' enchanted 

view 
The deep-blue sky, more fresh and 

bright in hue ! 



A finer fragrance breathes in every 
vale, 

A fuller luxury in every gale ; 

My ravish'd senses catch the rich per- 
fume. 

And Nature smiles in renovated bloom! 



THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. 

Hark ! how the gale, in mournful 
notes and stern. 
Sighs thro' yon grove of aged oaks, 
that wave 
(While down these solitary walks I 
turn ) 
Their mingled branches o'er yon 
lonely grave ! 

Poor soul ! the dawning of thy life 
was dim ; 
Frown'd the dark clouds upon thy 
natal day ; 
Soon rose thy cup of sorrow to the 
brim, 
And hope itself but shed a doubtful 
ray. 

That hope had fled, and all within was 
gloom ; 
That hope had fled — thy woe to 
frenzy grew ; 
For thou, wed to misery from the 
womb — 
Scarce one bright scene thy night 
of darkness knew ! 

Oft when the moonbeam on the cold 
bank sleeps. 
Where 'neath the dewy turf thy 
form is laid. 
In silent woe thy wretched mother 
weeps, 
By this lone tomb, and by this oak- 
tree's shade. 

" Oh ! softly tread : in death he slum- 
bers here ; 
'Tis here," she cries, " within this 
narrow cell! " — 
The bitter sob, the wildly-starting 
tear, 
The quivering lip, proclaim the rest 
too well ! 



ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. 

" Unus tanta dedit ? — dedit et majora daturus 

Ni celeri letlio corriperetur, erat. " 
— Don Manuel de Souza Coutino's 
Epitaph on Camoens. 

The hero and the bard is gone ! 
His bright career on earth is done, 
Where with a comet's blaze he shone. 



722 



THE WALK AT MIDNIGHT. 



He died — where vengeance arms the 

brave, 
Wliere buried freedom quits her grave, 
In regions of the eastern wave. 

Yet not before his ardent lay 
Had bid them chase all fear away, 
And taught their trumps a bolder bray. 

Thro' him their ancient valor glows, 
And, stung by thraldom's scathing 

woes, 
They rise again, as once they rose.^ 

As once in conscious glory bold. 

To war their sounding cars they roU'd, 

Uncrush'd, untrampled, uncontroU'd ! 

Each drop that gushes from their side, 
Will serve to swell the crimson tide. 
That soon shall whelm the Moslem's 
pride ! 

At last upon their lords they turn. 
At last the shame of bondage learn. 
At last they feel their fetters burn ! 2 

Oh ! how the heart expands to see 

An injured people all agree 

To burst those fetters and be free ! 

Each far-famed mount that cleaves 

the skies. 
Each plain where buried glory lies, 
All, all exclaim — " Awake ! arise ! " 

Who would not feel their wrongs "? 

and who 
Departed freedom would not rue. 
With all her trophies in his view "? 

To see imperial Athens reign, 
And, towering o'er the vassal main, 
Eise in embattled strength again — 

To see rough Sparta train once more 
Her infants' ears for battle's roar, 
Stern, dreadful, chainless, as before — 

Was Byron's hope — was Byron's 

aim : 
With ready heart and hand he came ; 
But perish'd in that path of fame ! 



THE WALK AT MIDNIGHT. 

" Tremulo sub lumine." — Virgil. 

Soft, shadowy moonbeam ! by thy 
light 

Sleeps the wide meer serenely pale : 
How various are the sounds of night, 

Borne on the scarcely-rising gale ! 

1 A little exaggeration maybe pardoned on 
a subject so inspiring. 

2 The enthusiasm the noble poet excited 
remindo us of Tyrtaeus. 



The swell of distant brook is lieard, 
Whoso far-off waters faintly roll ; 

And piping of the shrill small bird. 
Arrested by the wand'ring owl. 

Come liither ! let us thread witli care 
The maze of this green path, which 
binds 

The beauties of the broad parterre, 
And thro' yon fragrant alley winds. 

Or on this old bench will we sit. 
Round Avhich the clust'ring wood- 
bine wreathes. 
While birds of night around us flit ; 
And thro' each lavish wood-walk 
breathes, 

Unto my ravish'd senses, brought 
From yon thick-woven odorous 
bowers. 
The still rich breeze, with incense 
fraught 
Of glowing fruits and spangled 
flowers. 

The whispering leaves, the gushing 
stream. 

Where trembles theuncertain moon, 
Suit more the poet's pensive dream, 

Than all the jarring notes of noon. 

Then, to the thickly-crowded mart 
The eager sons of interest press ; 

Then, sliine the tinsel works of art — 
Now, all is Nature's loneliness ! 

Then, wealth aloft in state displays 
The glittering of her gilded cars ; 

Now, dimly stream the mingled rays 
Of yon far-twinkling, silver stars. 

Yon church, whose cold gray spire 
appears 
In the black outline of the trees, 
Conceals the object of my tears, 
Whose form in dreams my spirit 
sees. 

There in the chilling bed of earth 
The chancel's letter'd stone aboA^e — 

There sleepeth she who gave me birth. 
Who taught my lips the hymn of 
love ! 

Yon mossy stems of ancient oak. 
So widely crown'd with sombre 
shade, 
Those ne'er have heard the woodman's 
stroke 
Their solemn, secret depths invade. 

How oft the grassy way I've trod 
That winds their knotty boles be- 
tween. 



THE CUP OF POISON. 



723 



And gather'd from the blooming sod 
The flowers that flourish'd there 
unseen ! 

Else ! let ns trace that path once 
more, 
While o'er our track the cold beams 
shine ; 
Down this low shingly vale, and o'er 
Yon rude, rough bridge of prostrate 
pine. 



MITHRIDATES PRESENTING 

BERENICE WITH THE CUP 

OF POISON. 

Oh! Berenice, lorn and lost. 

This wretched soul with shame is 
bleeding : 
Oh ! Berenice, I am tost 

By griefs, like wave to wave suc- 
ceeding. 

FaU'n Pontus ! all her fame is gone, 
And dim the splendor of her glory ; 

Low in the west her evening sun. 
And dark the lustre of her story. 

Dead is the wreath that round her 
brow 
Theglowinghands of Honor braided: 
What change of fate can wait her now, 
Her sceptre spoil'd, her throne de- 
graded ? 

And wilt thou, wilt thou basely go. 
My love, thy life, thy country sham- 
ing, 
In all the agonies of woe, 

'Mid madd'ning shouts, and stand- 
ards flaming 1 

And wilt tliou, wilt thou basely go. 
Proud Rome's triumphal car adorn- 
ing? 
Hark ! hark ! I hear thee answer 
" No ! " 
The proffer'd life of thraldom scorn- 



Lone, crownless, destitute, and poor. 
My heart with bitter pain is burn- 
ing ; 

So thick a cloud of night hangs o'er. 
My daylight into darkness turning. 

Yet though my spirit, bow'd with ill. 
Small hope from future fortune 
borrows ; 
One glorious thought shall cheer me 
still. 
That thou art free from abject sor- 
rows — 



Art free forever from the strife 
I Of slavery's pangs and tearful an- 

I guish ; 

For life is death, and death is life. 
To those whose limbs in fetters lan- 
guish. 

Fill high the bowl ! the draught is 
thine ! 
The Romans! — now thou need'st 
not heed them I 
'Tis nobler than the noblest wine — 
It gives tliee back to fame and free- 
dom ! 

The scalding tears my cheek bedew ; 

My life, my love, my all — we sever! 
One last embrace, one long adieu. 

And then farewell — farewell for- 
ever ! 

In reality Mitlifidates had no personal in- 
terview with Monima and Berenice before 
the deaths of those princesses, but only sent 
bis eunuch Bacchidas to signify bis intention 
that they should die. I have chosen Bere- 
nice as the more general name, though 
Monima was bis peculiar favorite. 



THE BARD'S FAREWELL. 

"The king, sensible that nothing kept alive 
the ideas of military valor and of ancient glory 
80 much as the traditional poetry of the j^eo- 
ple — which, assisted by the power of music 
and the jollity of festivals, made deep im- 
pression on the minds of the youth — gath- 
ered together all the Welsh bards, and, from 
a barbarous though not absurd policy, or- 
dered them to bo put to death." — Hume. 

Snowdon ! thy cliffs shall hear no 
more 

This deep-toned harp again ; 
But banner-cry and battle-roar 

yhall form a fiercer strain ! 

O'er thy sweet chords, my magic lyre ! 

What future hand shall stra}^ ? 
What brain shall feel \\\y master's fin , 

Or frame his matchless lay ? 

Well might the crafty Edward fear : 
Should I but touch thy chord, 

Its slightest sound would couch the 
spear. 
And bare the indignant sword ! 

Full well he knew the wizard-spell 
That dwelt upon thy string ; 

And trembled, when he heard thy 
swell 
Thro' Snowdon's caverns ring ! 

These eyes shall sleep in death's dull 
night. 

This hand all nerveless lie. 
Ere once again yon orb of light 

Break o'er the clear blue sky! 



724 



OA' BEING ASKED FOR A SIMILE. 



And tliou, by Hell's own furies nurst, 
Unfurl thy banner's pride ! 

But know that, living, thee I cursed ; 
And, cursing thee, I died ' 



EPIGRAM. 

IMedea's herbs her magic gave — 
They taught her how to kill or save 
Xo foreign aid couldst thou devise, 
For in thyself thy magic lies. 



ON BEING ASKED FOR A SIMILE, 

TO ILLUSTRATE THE ADVANTAGE OF KEEP- 
ING THE PASSIONS SUBSERVIENT TO 
REASON. 

As the sharp, pungent taste is the 
glory of mustard, 
But, if heighten'd, would trouble 
your touch}'- papilla; ; 
As a few laurel-leaves add a relish to 
custard, 
But, if many, would fight with your 
stomach and kill ye : — 

So the passions, if freed from the pre- 
cincts of reason, 
Have noxious effects — but if duly 
confined, sir. 
Are useful, no doubt — this each 
writer agrees on : 
So I've dish'd up a simile just to 
your mind, sir. 



EPIGRAM ON A MUSICIAN, 

WHOSE HAKP-STEINGS WERE CRACKED 
FROM WANT OF USING. 

" Why dost thou not, strin(j thine old 

harp ? " saj'S a friend : 
" Thy complaints," replied Dolce, " I 

think never end ; 
I've reason enough to remember the 

thing. 
For j'ou always are harping upon the 

old strimj." 



THE OLD CHIEFTAIN. 

" And said I, that my limbs were old ! " 

— ScoTT. 

Raise, raise the song of the hundred 
shells ! 
Though my hair is gray and my 
limbs are cold ; 
Yet in my bosom proudly dwells 
The memory of the days of old ; 

When my voice was high, and my 
arm was strong. 



And the foeman before my stroke 
would bow. 
And I could have raised the sounding 
song 
As loudly as I hear ye now. 

For when I have chanted the bold 
song of death. 
Not a page would have stay'd in the 
hall. 
Not a lance in the rest, not a sword in 
the sheath. 
Not a shield on the dim gray wall. 

And who might resist the united 
powers 
Of battle and music that day. 
When, all martiall'd in arms on the 
heaven-kissing towers, 
Stood the chieftains in peerless 
array 1 

When our enemy sunk from our ej'es 
as the snow 
Which falls down the stream in the 
dell, 
When each word that I spake was the 
death of a foe, 
And each note of my harp was his 
knell 1 

So raise ye the song of tlie hundred 
shells ; 
Though my hair is gray and my 
limbs are cold. 
Yet in my bosom proudly dwells 
The memory of the days of old ! 



APOLLONIUS RHODIUS'S 
COMPLAINT.' 

With cutting taunt they bade me lay 
My high-strung harp aside. 

As if I dare not soar away 
On Fancy's plume of pride ! 

Oh ! while there's image in my brain 

And vigor in my hand. 
The first shall frame the soul-fraught 
strain. 

The last these chords command ! 

'Tis true, I own, the starting tear 
Has swell'd into mine eye, 

When she, whose hand the plant 
should rear, 
Could bid it fade and die : 

But, deaf to cavil, spite, and scorn, 
I still must wake the lyre ; 

^ This eminent poet, resenting the unwortliy 
treatment of the Ale.xandrians, quitted their 
city, where he had been for some time libra- 
rian, and retired to Rhodes. 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



Ill 



And still, on Fancy's pinions borne, 
To Helicon aspire. 

And all the ardent lays I pour, 
Another realm shall claim ; 

My name shall live — a foreign shore 
Shall consecrate my name. 

My country's! scorn I will not brook, 

But she shall rue it long ; 
And Rhodes shall bless the hour she 
took 

The exiled child of song. 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 
Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 

Thou art low ! thou mighty one. 
How is the brilliance of thy diadem, 

How is the lustre of thy throne 
Rent from thee, and tliy sun of fame 
Darken'd by the shadowy pinion 
Of the Roman bird, whose sway 
All the tribes of eart]i obey. 
Crouching 'neath his dread domin- 
ion. 
And the terrors of his name ! 

How is tliy royal seat — whereon 

Sat in days of yore 
Lowly Jesse's godlike son. 
And the strength of Solomon, 
In those rich and happy times 
When the ships from Tarshish 
bore 
Incense, and from Ophir's land. 
With silken sail and cedar oar, 
Wafting to Judea's strand 
All the wealth of foreign climes — 
How is thy royal seat o'erthrown ! 
Gone is all thy majesty : 

Salem ! Salem ! city of kings. 
Thou sittest desolate and lone. 
Where once the glory of the Most 
High 
Dwelt visibly enshrined be- 
tween the wings 
Of Cherubims, within whose bright 
embrace 
The golden mercy - seat re- 
main'd : 
Land of Jehovah ! view that sacred 
place 
Abandon'd and profaned ! 

Wail ! fallen Salem ! Wail : 

Mohammed's votaries pollute 
thy fane ; 
The dark division of thine holy veil 
Is rent in twain ! 
Thrice hath Sion's crowned rock 
Seen thy temple's marljle state, 
Awfully, serenely great, 

^Alexandria, however, was not bis native 
city : he was horn at Naucratis. 



Towering on his sainted brow, 
Rear its pinnacles of snow : 
Thrice, with desolating shock, 

Down to earth hath seen it driv'n 
From his heights, which reach to 
heav'n ! 

Wail, fallen Salem ! Wail : 

"Though not one stone above 
another 
There was left to tell the tale 

Of the greatness of thy story, 
Yet the long lapse of ages can- 
not smother 
The blaze of thine abounding 
glory ; 
Which thro' the mist of rolling years. 
O'er history's darken'd page appears. 
Like the morning star, whose gleam 
Gazeth thro' the waste of night. 
What time old (Ocean's purple stream 
In his cold surge hath deeply 
laved 
Its ardent front of dewy light. 
Oh ! who shall e'er forget thy 
bands, which braved 
The terrors of the desert's barren reign, 
And that strong arm which broke the 
chain 
Wherein ye foully lay enslaved. 
Or that sublime Theocracy which 
imved 
Your way thro' ocean's vast domain. 
And on, far on to Canaan's emerald 
plain 
Led the Israelitish crowd 
With a pillar and a cloud ? 

Signs on earth and signs on liigh 
Prophesied thy destiny ; 

A trumpet's voice above thee 

rung, 
A starry sabre o'er thee hung ; 
Visions of fiery armies, redly flashing 
In the many-color'd glare 
Of the setting orb of day ; 
And flaming chariots, fiercely dashing, 
Swept along the peopled air. 
In magnificent array : 
The temple doors, on brazen hinges 
crashing, 
Burst open with appalling 

sound, 
A wondrous radiance streaming 
round ! 

" Our blood be on our heads ! " j'e said : 

Such your awless imprecation : 
Full bitterly at length 'twas paid 
Upon j'our captive nation ! 
Arms of adverse legions bound 

thee. 
Plague and pestilence stood round 

thee ; 
Seven weary suns had brighten'd 
Syria's sky. 



726 



LAMENTATION OF THE PERUVIANS. 



Yet still was heard th' unceasing 

cry — 
" From south, north, east, and 
west, a voice. 
Woe unto thy sons and 
daughters ! 
"Woe to Salem ! thou art lost ! " 
A sound divine 
Came from the sainted, secret, inmost 

shrine : 
" Let us go hence ! " — and then a 
noise — 
The thunders of the parting-Deity, 
Like tlie rush of countless 
waters. 
Like the murmur of a host ! 



Though now each glorious hope 
be blighted. 
Yet an hour shall come, when ye, 
Though scatter'd like the chaff, shall 
be 
Beneath one standard once again 
united ; 
When your wandering race 

shall own. 
Prostrate at the dazzling throne 
Of your high Almighty Lord, 
The wonders of His searchless 
word, 
Th' unfading splendors of His 
Son! 



LAMENTATION OF THE 
PEKUVIANS. 

The foes of the East have come down 

on our shore, 
And the state and the strength of 

Peru are no more : 
Oh ! cursed, doubly cursed, was that 

desolate hour, 
When they spread o'er our land in the 

pride of their power ! I 

Lament for the Inca, the son of the 

Sun; 
Ataliba's fallen — Peru is undone ! 

Pizarro ! Pizarro ! though conquest 
may wing 
Her course round thy banners that 
wanton in air; 
Yet remorse to tliy grief-stricken con- 
science shall cling, 
And shriek o'er thy banquets in 
sounds of despair. 
It shall tell thee, that he who beholds 
from his throne 
The blood thou hast spilt and the 
deeds tliou hast done, 
Shall mock at tliy fear, and rejoice at 
thy groan, 



And arise in liis wrath for the death 
of his son ! 

Why blew ye, ye gales, when the mur- 
derer came ? 

Why fann'd ye the fire, and why fed 
ye the flame ? 

Why sped ye his sails o'er the ocean 
so blue ? 

Are ye also combined for the fall of 
Peru ? 

And thou, whom no prayers, no en- 
treaties can bend. 

Thy crimes and thy murders to heav'n 
shall ascend : 

For vengeance the ghosts of our fore- 
fathers call : 

At thy threshold, Pizarro, in death 
Shalt thou fall ! 

Ay, there — even there, in the halls 
of thy pride. 

With tlie blood of thine heart shall 
thy portals be dyed ! 

Lo ! dark as the tempests that frown 
from the North, 

From the cloud of past time Manco 
Capac looks forth — 

Great Inca ! to whom the gay day- 
star gave birth. 

Whose throne is the heav'n, and whose 
foot-stool the earth — 

His visage is sad as the vapors that 
rise 

From the desolate mountain of fire to 
the skies ; 

But his eye flashes flame as the light- 
nings that streak 

Those volumes that shroud the vol- 
cano's high peak. 

Hark ! he speaks — bids us fly to our 
mountains, and cherish 

Bold freedom's last spark ere forever 
it perish ; 

Bids us leave these wild condors to 
prey on each other. 

Each to bathe his fierce beak in the 
gore of his brother ! 

This symbol we take of our godhead 
the Sun, 

And curse thee and thine for the deeds 
thou hast done. 

]May the curses pursue thee of those 
thou hast slain, 

Of those that have fallen in war on 
the plain. 

When we went forth to greet ye — 
but foully ye threw 

Your dark shots of death on the sons 
of Peru. 

May the curse of the widow — the 
curse of the brave — 

The curse of the fatherless, cleave to 
thy grave ! 

And the words which they spake with 
their last dj'ing breath 

Embitter the pangs and the tortures 
of death ! 



SHORT EULOGIUM ON HOMER. 



Ill 



May he that assists be childless and 

poor, 
With famine behind him, and death 

at his door : 
May his nights be all sleepless, his 

days spent alone, 
And ne'er may he list to a voice but 

his own ! 
Or, if he shall sleep, in his dreams 

may he view 
The ghost of our Inca, the fiends of 

Peru : 
May the flames of destruction that 

here he has spread 
Be tenfold return'd on his murderous 

head ! 



SHORT EULOGIUM ON HOMEE. 

Immortal bard ! thy warlike lay 
Demands the greenest, brightest bay. 

That ever wreathed the brow 
Of minstrel bending o'er his lyre. 
With ardent hand and soul of fire, 

Or then, or since, or now. 



"A SISTER, SWEET ENDEAR- 
ING NAME ! " 

" Why should we mourn for the blqst? " 
— Byron. 

A SISTER, sweet endearing name ! 

Beneath this tombstone sleeps ; 
A brother (who such tears could 
blame ? ) 

In pensive anguish weeps. 

I saw her when in health she wore 
A soft and matchless grace, 

And sportive pleasures wanton'd o'er 
The dnnples of her face. 

I saw her when the icy wind 
Of sickness froze her bloom ; 

I saw her (bitterest stroke !) consign'd 
To that cold cell — the tomb ! 

Oh ! when I heard the crimibling 
mould 

Upon her coffin fall. 
And thought within she lay so cold, 

And knew that worms would crawl 

O'er her sweet cheek's once lovely 

I shudder'd as I turn'd 
From the sad spot, and in mine eye 
The full warm tear-drop burn'd. 

Again I come — again I feel 
Reflection's poignant sting. 

As I retrace my sister's form, 
And back her image bring. 

Herself I cannot — from the sod 
She will not rise again ; 



But this sweet thought, " She rests 
with God," 
Relieves a brother's pain. 



"THE SUN GOES DOWN IN 
THE DARK BLUE MAIN." 

" Irreparabile tempus." — Virgil. 

The sun goes down in the dark blue 
main. 
To rise the brighter to-morrow ; 
But oh ! what charm can restore 
again 
Those days now consign'd to sor- 
row? 

The moon goes down on the calm 
still night. 
To rise sweeter than when she 
parted ; 
But oh ! what charm can restore the 
light 
Of joy to the broken-hearted '? 

The blossoms depart in the wintry 
hour. 
To rise in vernal glory ; 
But oh ! what charm can restore the 
flower 
Of youth to the old and hoary ? 



"STILL, MUTE, AND MOTION- 
LESS SHE LIES." 

"Belle en sa fleur d'adolescence." 

— Berquin. 

" Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay." 

— Young. 

Still, mute, and motionless she lies. 
The mist of death has veil'd her 

eyes. 
And is that bright-red lip so pale. 
Whose hue was freshen'd by a gale 
More sweet than summer e'er could 

bring 
To fan her flowers with balmy wing ! 
Thy breath, the summer gale, is fled. 
And leaves thy lip, the flower, de- 

cay'd. 
When I was young, with fost'ring 

care 
I rear'd a tulip bright and fair, 
And saw its lovely leaves expand. 
The labor of my infant hand. 
But winter came — its varied dye 
Each morn grew fainter to mine eye ; 
Till, with'ring, it was bright no more. 
Nor bloom'd as it was wont before : 
And gazing there in boyish grief. 
Upon the dull and alter'd leaf, 
" Alas ! sweet flower," I cried in vain, 
" Would I could bid thee blush 



728 



LINES. 



So now, " Return, thou crimson dye, 
To Celia's lip ! " I wildly cry ; 
And steal upon my hojicless view. 
And flush it with reviving hue. 
Soft as the early vermeil given 
To the dim paleness of tlie heaven 
When slowly gaining on the sight. 
It breaks upon the cheerless white. 
It is an idle wish — a dream — 
I may not see the glaztfd eye beam ; 
I may not warm the damps of death. 
Or link again the scatter'd wreath ; 
Array in leaves the wintry scene. 
Or make parch'd Afric's deserts 

green ; 
Replace the rose-bud on the tree. 
Or breathe the breath of life in thee. 



" OH ! NEVER MAY FROWNS 

AND DISSENSION 

MOLEST." 

" Ipse raeiqiie 
Ante Larera propriuni." — Horace. 

Oh ! never may frowns and dissen- 
sion molest 
The pleasure I find at the social 
hearth ; 
A pleasure the dearest — the purest 
— the best 
Of all that are found or cnjoy'd on 
the earth ! 

For who could e'er traverse this val- 
ley of. tears. 
Without the dear comforts of 
friendship and home ; 
And bear all the dark disapjioint- 
ments and fears, 
Which chill most of our joys and 
annihilate some ? 
Vain, bootless pursuers of honor and 
fame ! 
'Tis idle to tell ye, what soon ye 
must prove — 
That honor's a bauble, and glory a 
name. 
When put in the balance with friend- 
ship and love. 

For when by fruition their pleasure is 
gone, 
We think of them no more — they 
but cliarm for a while ; 
AVhen the objects of love and affec- 
tion are flown, 
With pleasure we cling to their 
memories still ! 



ON A DEAD ENEMY. 

" Non odi mortuum." — Cicero. 

I CAME in haste with cursing breath, 
And heart of hardest steel ; 

But when I saw thee cold in death, 
I felt as man should feel. 



For when I look upon that face, 

Tliat cold, unheeding, frigid brow, 
Where neither rage nor fear has 
place. 
By Heaven ! I cannot hate thee 
now ! 



LINES.i 



" Cur pendet tacita fistula cum lyra? " 

— Horace. 
Whence is it, friend, that thine en- 
chanting lyre 
Of wizard charm, should thus in 
silence lie ? 
Ah ! why not boldly sweep its chords 
of fire. 
And rouse to life its latent har- 
mony ? 

Thy fancy, fresh, exuberant, bound- 
less, wild. 
Like the rich herbage of thy Plata's 
shore, 
By Song's resistless witchery beguiled 
Would then transport us, since it 
charm'd before ! 

For if thy vivid thoughts possess'd a 
spell. 
Which chain'd our ears, and fix'd 
attention's gaze. 
As at tlie social board we heard thee 
tell 
Of Chili's woods and Orellana's 
maze — 

How will they, deck'd in Song's en- 
livening grace, 
Demand our praise, witli added 
beauties told ; 
How in thy potent language shall we 
trace 
Those thoughts more vigorous and 
those words more bold ! 



THE DUKE OF ALVA'S OB- 
SERVATION ON KIXGS.-^ 
Kings, when to private audience thej' 
descend, 
And make the baffled courtier their 

prey. 
Do use an orange, as they treat a 
friend — 
Extract the juice, and cast the rind 
away. 

When thou art favor'd by thy sover- 
eign's eye, 
Let not his glance thine inmost 
thoughts discover ; 

1 Occasioned by hearing an ardent and 
beautiful description of the scenery of 
Southern America given by a gentleman 
■whom the author persuaded to put his ideas 
into the language of i)oetry. 

- See D'lsraeli's " Curiosities of Litera- 
ture." 



" THOU CAMESr TO THY BOWER, MV LOVE." 



729 



Or he will scan thee through, and lav 
thee by, 
Like some old book wliich he has 
read all over. 



"AH! YES, THE LIP MAY 
FAINTLY SMILE." 

An ! yes, tlie lip may faintly smile, 
The eye may sparkle for a while ; 
But never from that wither'd heart 
The consciousness of ill shall part ! 

That glance, that smile of passing 

light. 
Are as the rainbow of the night ; 
But seldom seen, it dares to bloom 
Upon the bosom of the gloom. 

Its tints are sad and coldly pale. 
Dim-glimmering thro' their misty 

veil ; 
Unlike the ardent hues which play 
Along the flowery bow of day. 

The moonbeams sink in dark-robed 

shades. 
Too soon the airy vision fades ; 
And double night returns, to shroud 
The volumes of the showery cloud. 



"THOU CAMEST TO THY 
BOWER, MY LOVE." 

" Virgo egregia forma." — Terence. 

Thou earnest to thy bower, my love, 

across tlie musky grove, 
To fan thy blooming charms within 

the coolness of the shade ; 
Thy locks were like a midnight cloud 

with silver moonbeams wove,^ 
And o'er thy face the varying tints of 

youthful passion play'd. 

Thy breath was like the sandal-wood 

that casts a rich perfume. 
Thy blue eyes mock'd the lotos in the 

noonday of his bloom ; 
Thy cheeks were like the beamy flush 

tliat gilds the breaking daj', 
And in tli' ambrosia of thy smiles the 

god of rapture lay.^ 

Fair as the cairba-stone art thou, that 
stone of dazzling white,^ 

Ere yet unholy fingers changed its 
milk-white hue to night ; 

1 A simile elicited from the songs of Jaya- 
deva, the Horace of India. 

• Vide Horace's ode, " PulcLris excubat 
in genis." 

s Vide Sale's " Koran." 



And lovelier than the loveliest glance 
from Even's placid star, 

And brighter than the sea of gold,^ 
the gorgeous Himsagar. 

In high Mohammed's boundless 

heaven Al Cawthor's stream 

may play, 
The fount of youth may sparkling 

gush beneath the western 

ray ; 2 
And Tasnim's wave in crystal cups 

may glow with musk and wine, 
But oh ! their lustre could not match 

one beauteous tear of thine ! 



TO . 

And shall we say the rose is sweet, 
Nor grant that claim to thee. 

In whom the loveliest virtues meet 
In social harmony ] 

And shall we call the lily pure. 
Nor grant that claim to thee, 

"Whose taintless, spotless soul is, sure. 
The shrine of purity ? 

And shall we say tlie sun is bright. 
Nor grant that claim to tliee, 

Whose form and mind with equal 
light 
Both beam so radiantly 1 



THE PASSIONS. 

"You have passions in j-our heart — 
scorpions ; they sleep now — beware how 
you awaken them! they will sting you even 
to death ! " — Mysteries of Udolpho, vol. iii. 

Beware, beware, ere thou takest 

The draught of misery ! 
Beware, beware, ere thou wakest 

The scorpions that sleep in thee ! 

The woes which thou canst not num- 
ber, 

As yet are wrapt in sleep ; 
Yet oh ! yet they slumber. 

But their slumbers are not deep. 

Yet oh ! yet while the rancor 
Of hate has no place in thee. 

While thy buoyant soul has an anchor 
In youth's bright tranquil sea : 

Yet oh ! yet while the blossom 
Of hope is blooming fair, 

' fee Sir William Jones on Eastern plants. 

-The fabled fountain of youth in the Baha- 
mas, in search of which Juan I'once de 
Leon discovered Florida. 



730 



THE HIGH-PRIEST TO ALEXANDER. 



While the beam of bliss lights thy 
bosom — 
Oh ! rouse not the serpent there ! 

For bitter thy tears will trickle 
'Neath misery's heavy load, 

When the world has put in its sickle 
To the crop which fancy sow'd. 

When the world has rent the cable 
That bound thee to the shore, 

And launch'd thee weak and unable 
To bear the billow's roar ; 

Then the slightest touch will waken 
Those pangs that v/ill always grieve 
thee, 
And thy soul will be fiercely shaken 
With storms that will never leave 
thee! 

So beware, beware, ere thou takest 

The draught of misery ! 
Beware, beware, ere thou wakest 

The scorpions that sleep in thee ! 



THE HIGII-PRIEST TO ALEX- 
ANDER. 

" Derrarae en todo cl orbe de la tierra 
Las arruas, el furor, y nueva guerra." 
— La Araucaiia, Canto xvi. 

Go forth, thou man of force ! 
The world is all thine own ; 
Before thy dreadful course 
Shall totter every throne. 
Let India's jewels glow 

Upon thy diadem : 
Go, forth to conquest go, 
But spare Jerusalem. 

Eor the God of gods, which liveth 

Through all eternity, 
'Tis He alone which giveth 

And taketh victory : 
'Tis He the bow that blasteth. 
And breaketh the proud one's 
quiver ; 
And the Lord of armies resteth 
In His Holy of Holies forever ! 

For God is Salem's spear. 

And God is Salem's sword ; 
What mortal man shall dare 
To combat with the Lord ? 
Every knee shall bow 

Before His awful sight; 
Every thought sink low 
Before the Lord of might. 

For the God of gods, which liveth 

Through all eternity, 
'Tis He alone which giveth 

And taketh victory : 
'Tis He the bow that blasteth. 
And breaketh the proud one's 
quiver ; 



And the Lord of armies resteth 
In His Holy of Holies forever ! 



"THE DEW, WITH WHICH THE 
EARLY MEAD IS DREST." 

" Spes nunquam implenda." — Lucretius. 

The dew, with which the early mead 
is drest, 
Which fell by night inaudible and 
soft, 
Mocks the foil'd eye that would its 
hues arrest, 
That glance and change so quickly 
and so oft. 

So in this fruitless sublunary waste. 
This trance of life, this unsubstan- 
tial show. 
Each hope we grasp at flies, to be re- 
placed 
By one as fair and as fallacious too. 

His limbs encased in aromatic wax. 
The jocund bee hies home his hoard 
to fill : 
On human joys there lies the heavy 
tax 
Of hope unrealized, and beck'ning 
still. 

But why with earth's vile fuel should 
we feed 
Those hopes which Heaven, and 
Heaven alone, should claim 1 
Why should we lean upon a broken 
reed. 
Or chase a meteor's evanescent 
flame? 

O man ! relinquish Passion's baleful 
joys, 
And bend at Virtue's bright unsul- 
lied shrine ; 
Oh ! learn her chaste and hallow'd 
glow to prize, 
Pure — unalloy'd — ineffable — di- 
vine ! 



ON THE MOONLIGHT SHINING 
UPON A FRIEND'S GRAVE. 

Show not, O moon ! with pure and liq- 
uid beam. 
That mournful spot, where Memory 
fears to tread ; 
Glance on the grove, or quiver in the 
stream, 
Or tip the hills — but shine not on 
the dead : 
It wounds the lonely hearts that still 
survive. 
And after buried friends are doom'd 
to live. 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN. 



731 



A CONTRAST. 
Dost ask why Laura's soul is riv'n 
By pangs her i^rudence can't com- 
mand ? 
To one who heeds not she has giv'n 
Her heart, alas ! without her hand. 

But Chloe claims our sympathy, 
To wealth a martyr and a slave ; 

For when the knot she dared to tie, 
Her hand without her heart she gave. 



EPIGRAM. 

A SAINT by soldiers fetter'd lay ; 
An angel took his bonds away. 
An angel put the cliains on me ; 
And 'tis a soldier sets me free.^ 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN. 

" It cannot die, it cannot Ptay, 
But leaves its darken'd dust behind." 
— Btbon. 

I DIE — my limbs with icy feeling 
Bespeak that Death is near ; 

His frozen hand each pulse is stealing ; 
Yet still I do not fear ! 



There is a hope — not frail as that 
Which rests on human things — 

The hope of an immortal state. 
And with the King of kings ! 

And ye may gaze upon my brow, 
Which is not sad, tho' pale ; 

These hope-illumined features show 
But little to bewail. 

Death should not chase the wonted 
bloom 

From off the Christian's face ; 
111 prelude of the bliss to come, 

Prepared by heavenly grace. 

Lament no more — no longer weep 

That I depart from men ; 
Brief is the intermediate sleep, 

And bliss awaits me then ! 



"THOSE WORLDLY GOODS 

THAT, DISTANT, SEEM." 

Those worldly goods that, distant, 

seem 
With every joy and bliss to teem, 
Are spurn'd as trivial when possess'd. 
And, when acquired, delight us least : 

1 The reader must suppose a young man 
deeply in love, but persuaded by a friend in 
the army to lead a militarj' life, and forget 
the charms of the siren who cramped the 
vigor of his soul. 



As torrent-rainbows,! which appear 
Still dwindling as we still draw near ; 
And yet contracting on the eye. 
Till the bright circling colors die. 



" HOW GAYLY SINKS THE GOR- 
GEOUS SUN WITHIN HIS 
GOLDEN BED." 

" Tu fais naitre la lumifere 
Du sein de robscuritee." — Rousseau. 

How gayly sinks the gorgeous sun 

within his golden bed. 
As heaven's immortal azure glows and 

deepens into red ! 
How gayly shines the burnish'd main 

beneath that living light. 
And trembles with his million waves 

magnificently bright ! 
But ah ! how soon that orb of day 

must close his burning eye. 
And night, in sable pall array'd, in- 
volve yon lovely sky ! 
E'en thus in life our fairest scenes are 

preludes to our woe ; 
For fleeting as that glorious beam is 

happiness below. 
But what ? though evil fates may 

frown upon our mortal birth. 
Yet Hope shall be the star that lights 

our night of grief on earth : 
And she shall point to sweeter morns, 

when brighter suns shall rise. 
And spread the radiance of their rays 

o'er earth, and sea, and skies ! 



"OH! YE WILD WINDS, THAT 
ROAR AND RAVE." 

" It is the great army of the dead returning 
on the northern blast." 

— Song of the Five Bards in Ossian. 

Oh ! ye wild winds, that roar and rave 
Around the headland's stormy brow. 

That toss and heave the Baltic wave, 
And bid the sounding forest bow, 

Whence is your course 1 and do ye 
bear 
The sigh of other worlds along, 

'The term "rainbows" is not exactly ap- 
plicable here, as I mean the bow after it has 
assumed the circular figure. " The sun shin- 
ing full upon it (viz., the Fall of Staubbach) 
formed toward the bottom of the fall a mini- 
ature rainbow extremely bright : while I 
stood at some distance, the rainbow assumed 
a semicircular figure; as I approached, the 
extreme points gradually coincided, and 
formed a complete circle of the most lively 
and brilliant colors. In order to have a still 
fairer view, I ventured nearer and nearer, the 
circle at the same time becoming smaller and 
smaller: and as I stood quite under the fall, 
it suddenly disappeared." — CoxE's Switzer- 
land. 



732 



SWITZERLAND. 



When through the dark immense of air 
Ye rush in tempests loud and strong? 

Methinks, upon your moaning course 
I hear the army of the dead; 

Each on his own invisible horse, 
Triumphing in liis trackless tread. 

For when the moon conceals her ray, 
And midnight spreads her darkest 
veil, 

Borne on the air, and far away. 
Upon the eddying blasts they sail. 

Then, then their thin and feeble bands 
Along the echoing winds are roU'd; 

The bodiless tribes of other lands ! 
The formless, misty sons of old ! 

And then at times their wailings rise. 
The shrilly wailings of the grave ! 

And mingle with the madden'd skies 
The rush of wind, and roar of wave 

Heard you that sound ? It was the 
hum 

Of the innumerable host. 
As down the northern sky they come, 

Lamenting o'er their glories lost. 

Now for a space each shadowy king. 
Who sway'd of old some mighty 
realm, 
Mounts on the tempest's squally wing. 
And grimly frowns thro' barred 
helm. 

Now each dim ghost, with awful yells, 
Uprears on high his cloudy form ; 

And with his feeble accent swells 
The hundred voices of the storm. 

Why leave ye thus the narrow cell. 
Ye lords of night and anarchj' ! 

Your robes the vapors of the dell, 
Your swords the meteors of the sky ? 

Your bones are whitening on the heath ; 

Your fame is in the minds of men : 
And would ye break the sleep of death. 

That ye might live to war again % 



SWITZERLAND. 

"Tous les objets de mon amour, 
Nos clairs ruisseaux, 
Nos hanieaux, 
Nos coteaux, 
Nos monlagnes? " 

— Ranz des Vaches. 

With Memory's eye. 
Thou land of joy ! 

I view thy cliffs once more ; 
And tho' thy plains 
Red slaughter stains, 

'Tis Freedom's blessed gore. 



Thy woody dells. 
And shadowy fells. 

Exceed a monarch's halls ; 
Thy pine-clad hills, 
And gushing rills. 

And foaming water-falls. 

The Gallic foe 

Has work'd thee woe, 

But trumpet never scared thee ; 
How could he think 
That thou wouldst shrink, 

With all thy rocks to guard thee 1 

E'en now the Gaul, 
That wrought thy fall, 

At his own triumph wonders ; 
So long the strife 
For death and life. 

So loud our rival thunders ! 

Oil ! when shall Time 
Avenge the crime, 

And to our rights restore us ? 
And bid the Seine 
Be choked with slain. 

And Paris quake before us? 



A GLANCE. 

Lady ! you threw a glance at me, 
I knew its meaning well ; 

He who has loved, and only he. 
Its mysteries can tell : 

That hieroglyphic of the brain. 

Which none but Cupid's priests ex- 
lain.i 



BABYLON. 

" Come down, and sit in the dust, O virgin 
daughter of Babylon, sit on the ground : there 
is no throne." — Isaiah xlvii., 1. 

Bow, daughter of Babylon, bow thee 
to dust ! 

Thine heart shall be quell'd, and thy 
pride shall be crush'd : 

Weep, Babylon, weep ! for thy splen- 
dor is past ; 

And they come like the storm in the 
day of the blast. 

Howl, desolate Babylon, lost one and 
lone ! 

And bind thee in sackcloth — for 
wliere is thy throne ? 

Like a wine-press in wrath will I tram- 
ple thee down. 

And rend from thy temples the pride 
of thy crown. 

' None but the priests could interpret the 
Egyptian hieroglyjihics. 



OH! WERE THIS HEART OF HARDEST STEEL." 



733 



Though thy streets be a hundred, thy 

gates be all brass, 
Yet thy proud ones of war shall be 

wither'd like grass ; 
Thy gates shall be broken, thy 

strength be laid low, 
And thy streets shall resound to the 

shouts of the foe ! 

Though thy chariots of power on thy 
battlements bound. 

And the grandeur of waters encom- 
pass thee round ; 

Yet thy walls shall be shaken, thy 
waters shall fail, 

Thy matrons shall shriek, and thy 
king shall be pale. 

The terrible day of thy fall is at 

hand. 
When my rage shall descend on the 

face of thy land ; 
The lances are pointed, the keen 

sword is bared, 
The shields are anointed,^ the helmets 

prepared. 

I call upon Cyrus ! He comes from 

afar. 
And the armies of nations are 

gather'd to war : 
"With the blood of thy children his 

path shall be red. 
And the bright sun of conquest shall 

blaze o'er his head ! 

Thou glory of kingdoms ! thy princes 

are drunk,^ 
But their loins shall be loosed, and 

their hearts shall be sunk ; 
They shall crouch to the dust, and be 

counted as slaves. 
At the roll of his wheels, like the 

rushing of waves ! 

For I am the Lord, who have mightily 

spann'd 
The breadth of the heavens, and the 

sea and the land ; 
And the mountains shall flow at my 

presence,^ and earth 
Shall reel to and fro in the glance of 

my wrath ! 

Your proud domes of cedar on earth 

shall be thrown, 
And the rank grass shall wave o'er 

the lonely hearth-stone ; 

^" Arise, ye princes.and anoint the shield. '*- 
— Isaiah xxi., 5. 

2 " I will make drunk her princes." — Jer- 
emiah li., 57. 

3 " The mountains melted from before the 
Lord." — Judfies v., 5. " Oh that the moun- 
tains might flow down at thy presence! " 
— Isaiah \x\v., 1; and again, ver. 3, "The 
mountains flowed down at thy presence." 



And your sons and your sires and 
your daughters shall bleed 

By the barbarous hands of the mur- 
dering Mede ! 

I will sweep ye away in destruction 

and death. 
As the whirlwind that scatters the 

chaff with its breath ; 
And the fanes of your gods shall be 

sprinkled with gore. 
And the course of your stream shall 

be heard of no more ! ^ 

There the wandering Arab shall ne'er 

pitch his tent. 
But the beasts of the desert shall wail 

and lament ; 
In their desolate houses the dragons 

shall lie. 
And the satyrs shall dance, and the 

bittern shall cry !^ 



"OH! WERE THIS HEART OF 
HARDEST STEEL." 

" Vultus nimium lubricus aspici." — Horace. 

Oh ! were this heart of hardest steel, 
That steel should yield to thee ; 

And tho' naught else could make it 
feel, 
'Twould melt thy form to see : 

That eye, that cheek, that lip, possess 

Such fascinating loveliness ! 

The first may claim whatever praise 

By amorous bard is paid ; 
In the dark lightning of its rays 

I view thy soul portray'd : 
And in that soul what light must be, 
When it imparts so bountgously ! 

Thy cheek, e'en in its humblest bloom, 
Like rich carnation glows ; 

But when the mantling blushes come, 
How fades the brightest rose ! 

Dead the fine hues, the beauty dead. 

And coarse the velvet of its head. 

Th' anemone's deep crimson dye 
Beams on thy lip's red charm ; 

Thy voice is more than harmony, 
Thy breath as sweet as balm : 

But still more balmy would it be. 

Would it but waft one sigh for me. 

To gaze on thee is ecstasy, 

Is ecstasy — but pain : 
Such is thy lip, thy cheek, thine eye, 

I gaze, and gaze again : 

1 " A drought is upon her waters." — Jer- 
emiah 1., 38. 
2 Vide Isaiah xiii., 20. 



734 



THE SLIGHTED LOVER. 



Oh ! might those three bright features 

bear 
For me a kiss — a blush — a tear ! 



THE SLIGHTED LOVER. 
" Spes animi credula mutui." — Horace. 
I LOVED a woman, and too fondly 
thought 
The vows she made were constant 
and sincere ; 
But now, alas ! in agony am taught, 
That she is faithless — I no longer 
dear! 

Wh}^ was I frenzied when her bright 
black eye. 
With ray pernicious, flash'd upon 
my gaze ? 
Why did I burn with feverish ecstasy, 
Stung with her scorn, and ravish'd 
with her praise % 

Would that her loveliness of form 
and mind 
Had only kindled friendship's 
calmer glow ! 
Then had I been more tranquil and 
resign'd. 
And her neglect had never touch'd 
me so. 

But with such peerless charms before 
his sight, 
Who would not own resistless 
Love's control ? 
Feel the deep thrilling of intense 
delight, 
And lose at once the balance of his 
soul ? 

Such was my fate — one sole enchant- 
ing lippe. 
One darling object from all else I 
chose : 
That hope is gone — its blighted blos- 
soms droop ; 
And where shall hopeless passion 
find repose 1 



" CEASE, RAILER, CEASE ! 
UNTHINKING MAN." 

" Ciir In amicorum vitiis tam cernis acutum, 
Quam aut aquila, aut serpens Epidaurius?" 
— Horace. 

Cease, railer, cease ! unthinking man, 
Is every virtue found in thee ? 

How plain another's faults we scan. 
Our own how faintly do we see ! 

So one who roves o'er rnarshy ground 
When eveningf ogs t he scene obscure, 

Sees vapor hang on all things round, 
And falsely deems his station pure ! 



ANACREONTIC. 

" Insanire juvat." — Horace. 

Let others of wealth and emolument 
dream. 
At profits exult, and at losses repine ; 
Far different my object, far different 
my theme — 
Warm love and frank friendship, 
and roses and wine ! 

Let other dull clods, without fancy or 
fire. 
Give my dear friend of Teos a mere 
poet's due ; 
Discarding his morals, his fancy 
admire, 
I deem him a bard, and a moralist 
too. 

Ye sober, ye specious, ye sage, ye 
discreet ! 
Your joys in perspective I never 
could brook ; 
With rapture I seize on whatever is 
sweet. 
Real, positive, present — no further 
I look. 

I will not be fetter'd by maxims or 
duties ; 
The cold charm of ethics I wholly 
despise : 
My hours glide along amid bottles 
and beauties — 
There's nothing to match with old 
crust and bright eyes ! 

I vary my cups as his fashions the 
dandy, 
And one day the creatures of gin 
haunt my brain ; 
And the next I depute the same office 
to brandy ; 
And so on, and so on, and the same 
round again ! 

I'm a flighty young spark — but I 
deem myself blest. 
And as happy a soul as my clerical 
brother ; 
Tho' the wish of a moment's first half's 
dispossest 
Of its sway o'er my mind, by the 
wish of the other. 

And thou who this wild mode of living 
despiscst, 
Sententious and grave, of thy apoph- 
thegms boast, 
Cry shame of my nostrums ; but I 
know who's wisest. 
Makes the best use of life, and en- 
joys it the most. 



SUNDAY MOBS. 



735 



"IN WINTER'S DULL AND 
CHEERLESS REIGN." 

"Deme eupercilio nubera." —Horace. 

In winter's dull and cheerless reign, 
What flower could ever glow \ 

Beneath the ice of thy disdain, 
What song could ever flow ? 

Restore thy smile ! — beneath its ray 
The flower of verse shall rise ; 

And all the ice that froze my lay 
Be melted by thine eyes ! 



SUNDAY MOBS. 

Tho' we at times amid the mob may 

find 
A beauteous face, with many a charm 

combined ; 
Yet still it wants the signature of 

mind. 
On such a face no fine expression 

dwells, 
That eye no inborn dignity reveals ; 
Tho" bright its jetty orb, as all may 

see, 
The glance is vacant — has no charms 

for me. 
When Sunday's sun is sinking in the 

west, 
Our streets all swarm with numbers 

gayly drest; 
Prank'd out in ribbons, and in silks 

array'd, 
To catch the eyes of passing sons of 

trade. 
Then giggling milliners swim pertly by. 
Obliquely glancing with a roguish eye; 
With short and airy gait they trip 

along, 
And vulgar volubility of tongue ; 
Their minds well pictured in their every 

tread, 
And that slight backward tossing of 

the head : 
But no idea, 'faith, that harbors there. 
Is independent of a stomacher. 
Their metaphors from gowns and caps 

are sought. 
And stays incorporate with every 

thought : 
And if in passing them I can but spare 
A moment's glance — far better thrown 

elsewhere — 
They deem my admiration caught, 

nor wist 
They turn it on an ancient fabulist. 
Who aptly pictured, in the jackdaw's 

theft, 
These pert aspirers of their wits bereft. 
To these, as well as any under heaven, 
A well-formed set of features may be 
given : 



But Where's the halo ? where's the spell 

divine ■? 
And the sweet, modest, captivating 

mien ? 
"Those tenderer tints that shun the 

careless eye," 
Where are they 1 — far from these 

low groups they fly : 
Yes, far indeed ! — for here you can- 
not trace 
The flash of intellect along the face ; 
No vermeil blush e'er spreads its 

lovely dye, 
Herald of genuine sensibility. 
These extras, e'en in beauty's absence, 

a charm ; 
But when combined with beauty, how 

they warm ! 
These are the charms that will not be 

withstood, 
Sure signs of generous birth and gen- 
tle blood. 
There is a something I cannot describe, 
Beyond th' all-gaining influence of a 

bribe, 
Which stamps the lady in the mean- 
est rout, 
And by its sure criterion marks her 

out; 
Pervades each feature, thro' each ac- 
tion flows, 
And lends a charm to every thing she 

does ; 
Which not the weeds of Irus could 

disguise, 
And soon detected wheresoe'er it lies. 



PHRENOLOGY. 

"Quorsutu haec tarn putida tendunt ?" 
— Horace. 

A CURIOUS sect's in vogue, who deem 
the soul 

Of man is legible upon his poll : 

Give them a squint at yonder doctor's 
pate, 

And they'll soon tell you why he 
dines on plate : 

Ask why yon bustling statesman, who 
for years 

Has pour'd his speeches in the sen- 
ate's ears, 

Tho' always in a politician's sweat, 

Has hardly grasp'd the seals of office 

yet? 

The problem gravels me — the man's 
possest 

Of talents — this his many schemes 
attest. 

The drawback, what ? —they tell me, 
looking big, 

" His skull was never moulded for in- 
trigue." 

Whene'er a culprit has consign'd his 
breath, 



736 



PHRENOLOGY. 



And proved the Scripture adage — 
death for death, 

With peering eyes the zealous tlirong 
appear, 

To see if murder juts behind his ear. 

So far 'tis barely plausible — but stay ! 

I ne'er can muster brass enough to say 

That a rude lump, or bunch too prom- 
inent, 

Is a bad symbol of a vicious bent. 

But when the sages strike another key, 

Consorting things that never will 
agree. 

And my consistency of conduct rate 

By inequalities upon my pate ^ 

And make an inharmonious bump the 
test 

Of my delight in concord^ — 'tis at 
best 

An awkward system, and not over- 
wise, 

And badly built on incoherencies. 

Another lustrum will behold our 
youth, 

With eager souls all panting after 
truth, 

Shrewd Spurzheim's visionary pages 
turn. 

And, with Napoleon's bust before 
them, learn 

Without the agency of what small 
bone 

Quicklime had ne'er upon a host been 
thrown : 

In what rough rise a trivial sink had 
saved 

The towns he burnt, the nations he 
enslaved.3 

E'en now, when Harold's minstrel left 
the scene, 

Where such a brilliant meteor he had 
been, 

Thus with the same officiousness of 
pains. 

Gazettes announced the volume of 
his brains. 

Rise, sons of Science and Invention, 
rise ! 

Make some new inroad on the starry 
skies ; 

Draw from the main some truths un- 
known before, 

liuramage the strata, every nook ex- 
plore. 

To lead mankind from this fantastic 
lore ; 

Solve the long-doubted problems 
pending still, 

And these few blanks in nature's an- 
nals fill : 

Tell us why Saturn rolls begirt with 
flame ? 

1 The bump of firmness. 

2 The bump of tune. 

3 The Corsican's organ of destructiveness 
must have been very prominent. 



Whence the red depth of Mars's as- 
pect came ? 

Are the dark tracts the silver moon 
displays 

Dusk with the gloom of caverns or of 
seas ? 

Think ye, with Olbers, that her glow 
intense. 

Erst deem'd volcanic, is reflected 
hence 1 

Are the black spots, which in yon sun 
appear 

Long vistas thro' his flaming atmos- 
phere, 

Eents in his fiery robe, thro' which the 
eye 

Gains access to his secret sanctuary 1 

Or inay we that hypothesis explode. 

Led by your science nearer to our God? 

Shall we, witli Glasgow's learned 
^ Watt, maintain 

That yon brigh^ bow is not produced 
by rain ? 

Or deem the theory but ill surmised, 

^nd call it light (as Brewster) polar- 
ized ? 

Tell when the clouds their fleecy load 
resign, 

How the frail nitre-moulded points 
combine ; 

What secret cause, when heaven and 
ocean greet. 

Commands their close, or dictates 
their retreat. ^ 

On you we rest, to check th' encroach- 
ing sway 

This outre science gains from day to 
day ; 

Investigation's blood-hound scent era- 
ploy 

On themes more worthy of our scru- 
tiny ; 

Rob this attractive magnet of its 
force. 

And check this torrent's inundating 
course. 



LOVE. 
I. 
Almighty Love ! whose nameless 
pow'r 
This glowing heart defines too well, 
Whose presence cheers each fleeting 
hour, 
Whose silken bonds our souls com- 
pel. 
Diffusing such a sainted spell, 

As gilds our being with the light 
Of transport and of rapturous 
bliss. 
And almost seeming to unite 

The joys of other worlds to this, 
The heavenly smile, the rosy 
kiss; — 

1 The waterspout. 



TO 



737 



Before whose blaze my spirits shrink, 
My senses all are wrapt in thee, 

Thy force I own too much, to tliink 
(So full, so great thine ecstasy) 
That thou art less than deity ! 

Thy golden chains embrace the land, 
Tiie starry sky, the dark blue main, 

And at the voice of thy cominand 
(So vast, so boundless is thy reign) 
All nature springs to life again ! 



The glittering fly, the wondrous 
things 

That microscopic art descries ; 
The lion of the waste, which springs, 

Bounding upon his enemies ; 
The mighty sea-snake of the storm, 
The vorticella's viewless form,i 

The vast leviathan, which takes 
His pastime in the sounding 
floods ; 
The crafty elephant, which makes 
His haunts in Ceylon's spicy 
woods — 
Alike confess thy magic sway. 
Thy soul-enchauting voice obey ! 

Oh ! whether thou, as bards have 
said, 
Of bliss or pain the partial giver, 

Wingest thy shaft of pleasing dread 
From out thy well-stored golden 
quiver, . 

O'er earth thy cherub wings extend- 
ing. 

Thy sea-born mother's side attend- 
ing;— 

Or else, as Indian fables say, 
Upon thine emerald lory riding. 

Through gardens, 'mid the restless 
play 
Of fountains, in the moonbeam 
gliding, 

'Mid sylph-like shapes of maidens 
dancing, 

Thy scarlet standard high advanc- 
ing;— 

Thy fragrant bow of cane thou bend- 
est,2 
Twanging the string of honey'd 
bees, 

1 See Baker on animalculse. 

2 See Sir WHliam Jones's works, vol. vi., 
p. 313. 

" He bends the luscious cane, and twists the 

string; 
With bees how sweet, but ah ! how keen the 

sting! 
He with Ave flowrets tips thy ruthless darts, 
Which thro' five senses pierce enraptured 

hearts." 



And thence the flower-tipp'd arrow 

sendest, 
Which gives or robs the heart of 

ease ; 
Camdeo, or Cupid, oh be near 
To listen, and to grant my prayer ! 



TO . 

The dew that sits upon the rose 
The brilliant hue beneath it shows ; 
Nor can it hide the velvet dye 
O'er which it glitters tremblingly. 
The fine-wove veil thrown o'er thy 

face. 
Betrays its bloom — thro' it we trace 
A loveliness, tho' veil'd, reveal'd. 
Too bright to be by ought conceal'd. 



SONG. 



To sit beside a crystal spring, 
Cool'd by the passmg zephyr's wing. 
And bend my every thought to thee. 
Is life, is bliss, is ecstasy ! 

And as within that spring I trace 
Each line, each feature of my face ; 
The faithful mirror tells me true — 
It tells me that I think of you I 



IMAGINATION. 

Perennial source of rapturous pleas- 
ure, hail ! 
"Whose inexhaustive stores can never 

fail ; 
Thou ardent inmate of the poet's 

brain, 
Bright as the sun and restless as the 

main. 
From all material Nature's stores at 

will 
Creating, blending, and arranging 

still ; 
Things in themselves both beautiful 

and grand. 
Receive fresh lustre from thy kindling 

hand ; 
And even those whose abstract charms 

are few. 
Thy spell-like touch arrays in colors 

bright and new. 
Oh ! thou art Poetry's informing soul, 
Betach'd from thee she stagnates and 

is dull ; 
She has no sweets without thee, and 

from thee 
Derives her magic and her majesty ; 
Thou art th' essential adjunct of her 

charms, 
'Tis by thy aid that she transports 

and warms : 



73S 



THE OAK OF THE NORTH. 



Nor will I e'er with that weak sect 

concur, 
"Who on obscurity alone confer 
Thy misapplied and prostituted 

name — 
A false and spurious and ungrounded 

claim ! — 
Construct a mass of thoughts uncouth 

and wild, 
Their words involved, and meaning 

quite exiled ; 
A mazy labyrinth without a clue. 
Wherein tiiey lose themselves and 

readers too ; 
The crude abortions of a heated 

brain. 
Where sense and symmetry are sought 

in vain ! 
But images both bright and sorted 

well, 
And perspicuity, that crowning spell. 
Fervor chastised by judgment and by 

taste, 
And language vivid, elegant, and 

chaste — 
These form the poet; in such garb 

array'd, 
Then, Fancy, all thy beauties are dis- 

play'd ; 
We feel thy loveliness and own thy 

sway, 
Confess thy magic pow'r, and praise 

the glowing lay ! 



THE OAK OF THE NOKTH. 

" Quae quantum vertice ad auras 
^thereas, tantum radice in Tartara tendit, 
Ergo non hyemes illam, non flabra, neque 

iiubres 
Convellunt; iramota manet, multosque ne- 

potes 
Multa virutn volens durando ssecula vincit." 
— Virgil. 

Thou forest lord ! whose deathless 
arms 

Full many an age of rolling time 
Have mock'd the madness of the 
storms, 

Unfaded in thy shadowy prime 
Thou livest still — and still shalt stay, 

Tho' tlie destroying tyrant bow 
The temple, and the tower, and lay 

The pomp and pride of empires low. 
And if thy stately form be riven 
And blasted by the fiery levin, 
Still dost thou give that giant front, 
Undaunted, to the pitiless brunt 

Of angry winds, that vainly rave ; 
And, like the scars by battle graven 

Upon the bosoms of the brave. 
The tokens of resistless heaven 

Deep in thy rugged breast are seen, 

The marks of frays that once have 
been ; 



The lightning's stroke, the whirl- 
wind's force. 
Have marr'd thee in their furious 
course, 
But they have left thee unsubdued ; 
And if they bend thy crest awhile, 
Thou dost arise in might renew'd. 

Tameless in undiminish'd toil, 
Singly against an hostile host 

Contending, like th' immortal king, 
Who quell'd the Titans' impious boast 
With thunder, tho' he stood alone 
Defender of his starry throne, 
Dashing th' aspiring mountains 
down, 
Dark Ossa, like a powerless thing, 
And Pelion with his nodding pines ; 

Then bound with adamantine chams. 
Where the glad sunlight never shines, 

The earth-born in eternal pains. 
Of many who were born with thee, 
Scarce now a thought survives to 
tell ; 
War hath ta'en some — their memory 
But faintly lives of those who fell : 
Even the conqueror's glorious name. 

That boasts a life be)'ond the toml). 
Borne on the wings of rushing fame. 
May bow before the common doom, 
Before the measure of its praise 
Hath filled thy multitude of days. 

And ere the poet's hallow'd star. 

Refulgent o'er his voiceless urn, 
Glance thro' the gloom of years go far. 

Its livmg fires may cease to burn. 
Thy mere existence shall be more 

Than others' immortality ; 
The spirits of the great, who bore 

A sway on earth, and still would be 
Remember'd when they are not seen, 

Shall die like echoes on the wind. 
Nor leave of all that they have been 

In living hearts one thrill behind ; 
Their very names shall be forgot, 
Ancient of days ! ere thou art not. 

The druid's mystic harp, that hung 

So long upon thy stormy boughs, 
Mute as its master's magic tongue. 

Who slunibereth in that deep re- 
pose, 
No earthly sound shall wake again, 

Nor glare of sacrificial fire. 
Nor howl of victims in their pain, 

Or the weird priestess in her ire. 
Hath mingled with th' oblivious dust 

Of him who called its spirit forth. 
In those prophetic tones which hush'd 

The enraptured children of the 
north, 
Binding them with a holy fear, 
And smiting each enchanted ear 
With such a sound as seem'd to raise 
The hidden forms of future days : 



THE OAK OF THE NORTH. 



739 



Sleep on ! — no Komaii foe alarms 

Your rest ; and over ye shall wave 
A guardian God's protecting arms, 
And flowers shall deck your grassy 
grave ! 

And he who gazeth on thee now, 

Ere long shall lie as low as they ; 
The daring heart, the intrei^id brow, 
Not long can feel youth's joyous glow, 
The strength of life must soon 
decay. 
A few short years fleet swiftly by. 
And raylcss is the sparkling eye, 
Mute the stern voice of high com- 
mand, 
And still oppression's iron hand ; 
The lords of earth shall waste away 
Beneatli the worm, and many a day 
Of wintry frost and summer sun. 
Ere yet thy number'd hours be done; 
For tliou art green and flourishing, 
The mountain-forest's stately king. 
Unshaken as the granite stone 
That stands thine everlasting throne. 

There was a tower, whose haughty 
head 

Erewhile rose darkly by thy side, 
But they are number'd with the dead, 

Who ruled withm its place of pride; 
For time and overwhelming war 

Have crumbled it, and overthrown 
Bulwark, and battlement, and bar. 

Column, and arch, and sculptured 
stone ; 

Around thy base are rudely strewn 
The tokens of departed power. 

The wrecks of unrecorded fame 
Lie mouldering in the frequent 
shower : 

But thou art there, the veiy same 
As when those hearts, which now are 

cold. 
First beat in triumph to behold 
The shadow of its form, which fell 
At distance o'er the darken'd dell. 
No more the battle s black array 
Shall sternly meet the rising day ; 
No beacon-fires disastrous light 
Flame fiercely in the perilous night. 
Forgotten is that fortress now. 

Deserted is the feudal hall. 
But here and there the red flowers 
blow 

Upon its bare and broken wall. 
And ye may hear the night- wind moan 
Thro' shatter'd hearths with moss 
o'ergrown, 

Wild grasses wave above the gate ; 
And where the trumpets sung at morn. 
The tuneless night-bird dwells forlorn, 

And the unanswer'd ravens prate. 

Till silence is more desolate. 
For thou hast heard the clarion's 
breath 



Pour from thy heights its blast of 

death. 
While gathering multitudes replied 
Defiance with a shout that hurl'd 
Back on their foes the curse of pride, 
And bended bows, and flags un- 
furl'd ; 
And swiftly from the hollow vale 
Their arrowy vengeance glanced, like 

hail. 
What time some fearless son of war, 
Emerging to the upper air, 
Gain'd the arm'd steep's embattled 
brows. 
Thro' angry swords around him 
waving, 
'Mid the leagued thousands of his 
foes. 
Their fury like a lion braving : 
And faster than the summer rain 
Stream'd forth the life-blood of the 

slain, 
Whom civil hate and feudal power 
Mingled in that tempestuous hour, 
Steeping thy sinewy roots, that drew 
Fresh vigor from that deadly dew, 
And still shall live — tho' monarchs 
fail ; 
And those who waged the battle 
then 
Are made the marvel of a tale. 

To warm the hearts of future men. 
On such a heart did Cambria gaze, 

When Freedom on that dismal day 
Saw Edward's haughty banners blaze 

Triumphant, and the dread array 
In the deep vales beneath her gleam, 
Then started from her ancient 
throne. 
That mighty song could not redeem 
From ruthless hands and hearts of 

stone. 
While ages yield their fleeting breath. 

Art thou the only living thing 
On earth, which all-consuming death 
Blasts not with his destroying wing f 
No ! thou shalt die ! — tho' gloriously 
Those proud arms beat the azure 
air, 
Some hour in Time's dark womb shall 
see 
The strength they boast no longer 
there. 
Tho' to thy life, as to thy God's, 

Unnumber'd years are as a day. 
When He, who is eternal, nods. 
Thy mortal strength must pass 
away. 
Unconquer'd Fate, with viewless hand. 
Hath mark'd the moment of thy 
doom, 
For He, who could create, hath 
spann'd 
Thy being, and its hour shall come : 
Some thunderbolt more dread than 
all 



740 



EXHORTATION TO THE GREEKS. 



That ever scathed thee witli their 
fire, 
Arm'd with the force of heaven, shall 
fall 
Upon thee, and thou shalt expire ! 
Or age, that curbs a giant's might, 
Shall bow thee down and fade thy 
bloom, 
The last of all, the bitterest blight 
Tiiat chills our hearts, except the 
tomb. 
And then thou canst but faintly 
strive 
Against the foes thou hast defied, 
Keturning spring shall not revive 

Tlie beauty of thy summer pride ; 
And the green earth no more shall 
sleep 
Beneath thy dark and stilly shade, 
Wliere silver^'^ dews were wont to weep, 
And the red day-beam never stray'd, 
But flow'rets of the tenderest hue. 
That live not in tiie garish noon. 
Pale violets of a heavenly blue, 

Unfaded by the sultry sun, 
Unwearied by the blasts that shook 
Thy lofty head, securely throve. 
Nor heeded in that grassy nook 

The ceaseless wars that raged above. 
The revelling elves at noon of niglit 
Shall throng no more beneath thy 
boughs. 
When moonbeams shed a solemn 
light. 
And every star intensely glows ; 
No verdant canopy shall screen 

From view the orgies of their race, 
But tlie blue heaven's unclouded 
sheen 
Shall pierce their secret dwelling- 
place. 
Tho' now the lavrock pours at morn. 
Shrined in thy leaves, his rapturous 
lay, 
Then shall the meanest songster 
scorn 
To hail thee, as he wings his way. 
The troubled eagle, when he flies 

Before the lightnings, and the wrath 
Of gathering winds and stormy skies. 

That darken o'er his cloudy path. 
With ruffled breast and angry eye 
Shall pass thee, and descend in 
haste 
Amid the sheltering bowers that lie 

Fa^ down beneath the rolling blast. 
Thine awful voice, that swells on high 

Above the rushing of tlie north, 
Above the thunders of the sky, 

When midnight hurricanes come 
forth. 
Like some fall'n conqueror's, who be- 
wails 
His laurels torn, his humbled fame, 
Shall murmur to tlie passing gales 
At once thy glory and thy shame ! 



EXHORTATION TO THE 
GREEKS. 

"En ilia, ilia quam saepe optaBtia, libertas! " 
— Sallust. 

Arouse thee, Greece ! and remem- 
ber the day. 
When the millions of Xerxes were 

quell'd on their way ! 
Arouse thee, O Greece ! let the pride 

of thy name 
Awake in thy bosom the light of thy 

fame ! 
Why hast thou shone in the temple of 
glory ? 
Why hast tliou blazed in those 
annals of fame ? 
For know that the former bright page 
of thy story 
Proclaims but thy bondage and tells 
but thy shame ; 
Proclaims from how high thou art 

fallen ! — how low 
Thou art plunged m the dark gulf of 

thraldom and woe ! 
Arouse thee, O Greece ! from the 
weight of thy slumbers ! 
The chains are upon thee! — arise 
from thy sleep ! 
Remember the time, when nor nations 
nor numbers 
Could break thy thick phalanx em- 
bodied and deep. 
Old Athens and Sparta remember the 
morning. 
When the swords "of the Grecians 
were red to the hilt ; 
And, the bright gem of conquest her 
Chaplet adorning, 
Platsea rejoiced at the blood that ye 
spilt ! 
Remember the night, when, in shrieks 
of affright. 
The fleets of the East in your ocean 
were sunk: 
Remember each day, when, in battle 
array. 
From the fountain of glory how 
largely ye drunk ! 
For there is not ought tliat a freeman 
can fear. 
As the fetters of insult, the name 
of a slave ; 
And there is not a voice to a nation 
so dear. 
As the war-song of freedom that 
calls on the brave. 



KING CHARLES'S VISION. 

A vision somewhat resembling the follow, 
ing, and prophetic of the Northern .Alexander, 
is said to have been witnessed by Charles XI. 
of Sweden, the antagonist of Sigismund. 
The reader will exclaim, " Credat Judffius 
Apella! " 



KING CHARLES'S VISION. 



741 



King Charles was sitting all alone, 
In his lonely palace-tower, 

When there came on his ears a heavy 
groan 
At the silent midnight hour. 

He turn'd him round where he heard 
the sound, 

But nothing might he see ; 
And he only heard the nightly bird 

That shriek'd right fearfully. 

He turn'd him round where he heard 

the sound, 

To his casement's arched frame : 

" And he was aware of a light that 

was there," ^ 

But he wist not whence it came. 

He looked forth into the night, 
'Twas calm as night might be ; 

But broad and bright the flashing light 
Stream 'd red and radiantly. 

From ivory sheath liis trusty brand 

Of stalwart steel he drew; 
And he raised the lamp in his better 
hand, 

But its flame was dim and blue. 

And he open'd the door of that palace- 
tower, 
But harsh turn'd the jarring key : 
" By the Virgin's might," cried the 
king that night, 
" All is not as it should be ! " 

Slow turn'd the door of the crazy 
tower. 

And slowly again did it close ; 
And withm and without, and all about, 

A sound of voices rose. 

The king he stood in dreamy mood. 
For the voices his name did call ; 

Then on he past, till he came at last 
To the pillar'd audience hall. 

Eight-and-forty columns wide, 

Many and carved and tall 
(Four-and-twenty on each side), 

Stand in that lordly hall. 

The king had been pight^ in the mor- 
tal fight, 
And struck the deadly blow ; 
The king he had strode in the red red 
blood. 
Often, afore, and now : 

* " And he was aware of a Gray-friar." 
— The Gray Brother. 
"And he was aware of a knight that was 
there." — Tlie Baron of Sinalhome. 
- " A hideous rock is jright 

Of mighty magnes-stone." — Spenser. 

" You vile abominable tents. 
Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian 

plains ! " — SUAIiSPEARE. 



Yet his heart had ne'er been so har- 
row'd with fear 
As it was this fearful liour ; 
For his eyes were not dry, and his hair 
stood on high. 
And his soul had lost its power. 

For a blue livid flame, round the hall 
where he came, 
In fiery circles ran ; 
And sounds of death, and chattering 
teeth. 
And gibbering tongues began. 

He saw four-and-twenty statesmen 
old 
Round a lofty table sit ; 
And each in his hand did a volume 
liold, 
Wherein mighty things were writ. 

In burning steel were their limbs all 
cased ; 
On their cheeks was the flush of ire : 
Their armor was braced, and their 
liclmets were laced. 
And their hollow eyes darted fire. 

With sceptre of might, and with gold 
crown bright. 
And locks like the raven's wing. 
And in regal state at that board there 
sat 
The likeness of a king. 

With crimson tinged, and with ermine 
fringed. 
And with jewels spangled o'er. 
And rich as the beam of the sun on 
the stream, 
A sparkling robe he wore.^ 

1 This is, perhaps, an unpardonable false- 
hood, since it is well known that Charles was 
60 great an enemy to finery as even to object 
to the appearance of the Duke of Marl- 
borough on that account. Let those readers, 
therefore, whose critical nicety this passage 
offends sub.stitute the following stanza, which 
is " the whole truth, and nothing but the 
truth : " 

With buttons of brass that glitter'd like 
glass, 
And brows that were crown'd with bays, 
With large blue coat, and with black jack- 
boot, 
The theme of his constant praise. 

Nothing indeed could e.xceed Charles's 
affection for his boots: he eat, drank, and 
slept in them : nay, he never went on a boot- 
less errand. When the dethroned monarch 
Augustus waited upon him with proposals of 
peace, Charles entertained him with a long 
dissertion on his unparalleled aforesaid jack- 
hoels : he even went so far as to threaten 
(according to Voltaire), in an authoritative 
epistle to the Senate at Stockholm, that unless 
they proved less refractory, he would send 
them one of his boots as regent! Now this, 
we must allow, was a step beyond Caligula's 
consul. 



742 



KING CHARLES'S VISION. 



Yet though fair shone the gem on his 
proud diadem, 
Though his robe was jewell'd o'er, 
Though brilliant the vest on his mailed 
breast, 
Yet they all were stain'd with 
gore ! 

And his eye darted ire, and his glance 
shot fire. 
And his look was high command ; 
And each, when he spoke, struck his 
mighty book. 
And raised liis shadowy hand. 

And a headman stood by, with his axe 
on high. 
And quick was his ceaseless stroke ; 
And loud was the shock on the echo- 
ing block. 
As the steel shook the solid oak. 

While short and thick came the 
mingled shriek 
Of the wretches who died by his 
blow ; 
And fast fell each head on the pave- 
ment red, 
And warm did the life-blood flow. 



Said the earthly king to the ghostly 
king, 
" What fearful sights are those ? " 
Said the ghostly king to the earthly 
king, 
" They are signs of future woes ! " 

Said the earthly king to the ghostly 
king, 
" By St. Peter, who art thou '? " 
Said the ghostly king to the earthly 
king, 
" I shall be, but I am not now." 

Said the earthly king to the ghostly 
king, 
"But when will thy time draw 
nigh ? " 
" Oh ! the sixth after thee will a war- 
rior be, 
And that warrior am I. 



"And the lords cf tlie earth shall be 

pale at my birth. 

And conquest shall hover o'er me ; 

And the kingdoms shall shake, and 

the nations shall quake. 

And the thrones fall down before 



" And Cracow shall bend to my maj- 
esty, 
And the haughty Dane shall bow ; 
And the Pole shall fly from my pierc- 
ing eye, 
And the scowl of my clouded 
brow. 

"And around my way shall the hot 
balls play. 
And the red-tongued flames arise ; 
And my pathway shall be on the mid- 
night sea, 
'Neath the frown of the wintry 
skies. 

" Thro' narrow pass, over dark mo- 
rass. 
And the waste of the weary plain. 
Over ice and snow, where the dark 
streams flow. 
Thro' the woods of the wild Uk- 
raine. 

" And though sad be the close of my 
life and my woes. 
And the hand that shall slay me 
unshown ; 
Yet in every clime, thro' the lapse of 
all time. 
Shall my glorious conquests be 
known. 

"And blood shall be shed, and the 
earth shall be red 
With the gore of misery ; 
And swift as this flame shall the light 
of my fame 
O'er the world as brightly fly." 

As the monarch spoke, crew the morn- 
ing cock. 
When all that pageant bright. 
And the glitter of gold, and the states- 
men old, 
Fled into the gloom of night ! 




LHBMr:^ 









LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 546 489 4 




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